SθNIC TRIBES
by Knolltrey
Summary: A young boy awakens on Mobius, a planet scarred by old wounds and warring tribes. He's thrust into the middle of conflict involving heated passions, terrible secrets, and a disagreeable blue hedgehog trying his best to stay on the sidelines.
1. A Tribal Thing

_Mobius basks beneath the Rainbow..._

_And the Rainbow scorches the sky..._

About five years ago humans first arrived on Mobius. It didn't go well.

Mistakes were made.

Backing up a bit: what exactly is 'Mobius'? Well, that depends on _when _you asked the question. Fifteen years ago the answer would have been 'a diverse planet of animals, united under the rule of their High King'. But fourteen years ago that king died, his great city crumbled, and the definition of 'Mobius' changed. It didn't change too much. Today it's _still_ a diverse planet of animals.

But now it's a planet divided under the Code of the Tribes. And under that code sectarian violence rages.

But there were those who rejected the splintering of the species. They sought to carry on the legacy of their High King, and they worked tirelessly to reunify the planet and bring all species back together under one banner.

They called themselves 'Omega Tribe'.

Two young refugees from the High King's city reunited with each other in this group. One was a female rat named Fionnghal, and the other a male hedgehog named Sonic. Both were accomplished warriors, but they fought in different ways, and they fought for different things.

When humans arrived on Mobius they made first contact with Omega Tribe.

And it didn't go well.

Mistakes were made.

A certain human rode the ashes of that conflict to the top of a new order. When he arrived on Mobius with his fellow humans he had a regular, boring old job. He had a regular, boring old name. In the aftermath of the fighting, however, he decided to change that name.

He goes by 'Eggman', now.

The man was a mechanical genius, and he spent his free time giving out all manner of cybernetic 'upgrades' to any Mobian willing to go under the knife. Because of this generosity he gained many allies.

And when he became the last human on Mobius he gained a _tribe_.

The years passed. Omega Tribe fell apart even as Eggman's tribe grew stronger. Fionnghal and Sonic's generation slowly came into their own. Fionnghal chose to continue her fight, leading a new group against Eggman's forces. But Sonic chose exile, doing the best he could to remove himself from the ravages of war, and the world itself.

He had grown tired of fighting.

This is the story of that new generation; it's a story about the mistakes that were made in the past, and their consequences for Mobius' future. Today this planet hangs on the edge of a knife, barely maintaining even a semblance of balance...

12 hours ago another human vessel crash landed on the planet surface.

So much for balance.

.

.

A Map of 'Mobius' (remove the three spaces in the address):

_img856. imageshack. us/img856/4478/mobius. jpg_


	2. Runner at Rest

"_Runner_ at Rest"

I.

Blue sparks exploded in his head. Bright. Swam across his vision like dragonflies. A pained shock rattled up his jaw and over his forehead, pulsing in time with the lightshow. And what a show! Blue sparks. Seriously.

Really, _really_ blue.

Tasted like strawberries, for whatever that's worth.

Kakkari's eyes danced, desperately searching for something to lock onto. When they finally found something his reaction was immediate. Instinctual, even.

_Glurp_!

A set of feet raced frantically over the rubble, but all at once there was that pink whip of moist flesh, nipping right at the heels— a raw, thick _snap_— and then scuffling. Unbalance. Sputtering grunts as two feet skirted the edge, teetering, and after that not a thing but a scream— long and loud.

And after that? Not a thing but nothing.

The rubble beneath him trembled. A heavy body bounded up the wreckage. Soon Brady was there, looming over Kakkari. The sloth's ungainly paws were still poised, ready for action. His metal claw extenders glistened in the wan moonlight under his black eyes.

"Kak?" He growled. "You alright?"

Kakkari groaned, rolling onto his back. The chameleon reached behind him, gingerly, tugging at the remains of his brittle tail. With a crunchy snap the appendage was broken, prompting a pained whimper from tight-drawn lips.

"Al_right_," he moaned. "Just not quite al_together_. Well, there's another one for the collection, isn't it?"

Brady stepped over the chameleon and peered down the sheer drop beside them. He sighed, scratching his thick neck with one girded claw.

"Aw, Kakk..." he muttered. "There's gonna be hell for this! What were you doin'?"

Kakkari struggled onto one knee, still cradling his aching head.

"Following orders," he said. "M'qeulo**,** Asher and Fi didn't want any of the technology from this wreckage finding its way into unfriendly hands. Speaking of which, what happened to _your_ Delt?"

"Well, I didn't push mine off a cliff—"

"_Trip_ off a cliff—"

"Whatever," Brady waved one of his paws. "My Delt's only a little worse for wear. She left in a hurry, too, tail between her legs."

Kakkari smirked. "That must be awfully painful for a warthog."

Brady lumbered over to the oblong cask skirting the edge of the ship wreckage, his front claws clanking awkwardly over twisted metal as he loped. The shiny box threatened to careen over. The sloth absently grabbed it with one paw, tugging it back up the slope.

"She'll be calling for reinforcements before long, so we need to be quick about this." Brady tilted his head at the cargo, as if considering whether to let it drop or not. He sighed, shaking his head. "To think, Kakk: you don't even know what that Delt was salvaging."

The chameleon shrugged.

"Well, wasn't looking to kill specifically, you know. And yeah: there's not much worth salvaging from a twisted husk like this. Heck, it's hard to tell this lump was ever capable of flying. But I'd sooner lose my legs than give up even a bag of butter knives to a Delt. Don't trust 'em with anything so dangerous..."

Brady cocked his head in acknowledgment.

"Granted, just about _anything_ is dangerous in the hands of a Delta."

The sloth wiped at the cask's top, disturbing a fine layer of dirt. He blinked, and then hunched down closer. He exhaled, long and quiet, and then his jaw slowly dropped.

"Kak," he whispered. "This... _this_ is more dangerous than a bag of butter knives."

The chameleon grinned, stumbling over to join Brady.

"What is it, huh? Sporks?"

When he stood by his compatriot, staring down into the cask, Kakkari's face suddenly blanched, along with the rest of his body. Crickets chirped in the distance, and for a great while that was the only sound to be heard.

"Well," Kakkari finally managed. "It doesn't _look_ as dangerous as a spork, at least—"

"Get on the radio," Brady whispered. "_Now_."

II.

Fionnghal's metal boots clomped along the corridor, clanking like rain on a tin roof. The rat's tail swished dramatically with each step, oscillating like a wiper blade. The toad walking behind her was already straining to keep up, panting through his bulbous mouth while continuing his speech.

"Naturally _our_ concern about the safety of the wreckage involved radiation leakage, but Delta Tribe had an additional concern—"

"The ship's Slipper?" Fi turned her head, looking back at the toad with one brilliant blue eye.

The toad nodded. "The electromagnetics involved would bake the Delts like potatoes, you know, just as surely as a radiation leak would cook us all like a plate of steamed mushrooms."

The toad paused a moment to stare down at his voluminous stomach, girded in a delicate plaid vest and coat that looked ready to pop open at any moment.

"I suppose Myrtle will have dinner ready at the usual hour, hmm?"

"Focus, Thadesch." Fionnghal's cavernous ears twitched. "And you said the Delts _had_ a concern? That means it's no _longer_ a concern for them, right?"

Thadesch nodded. "I've peeked at the instruments they've been using to monitor the vessel since the crash. They have to know the ship's Slipper is inoperable, which means—"

"They know they have a free pass aboard." Fi sighed. "Thank you, Thadesch."

Fi stepped into a small circular room banked by windows offering a panoramic view of the hilly terrain outside. Craggy rocks dominated the view, most littered with pathetic, clingy scrub. Further out in the misty predawn twilight was the narrow maw of nearby canyon rims. The melancholy Thallomoor foliage would be visible in just a few hours, but Fi suspected by then she'd have other things to worry about than looking at a pretty view.

"Things are liable to get plenty _ugly_, first," she whispered.

A small podium at the room's center displayed a grainy three-dimensional image, quivering like an improperly tuned television set. It showed a gnarled mountain of metal, once a grand flying vessel. Impressive, in itself, but travel through _air_ was the most mundane of this ship's abilities. It could do far more than that. Its name said as much.

"_Rainbow_ _Runner_..." Fionnghal moved a hand over the image, which quivered as her bony fingers brushed over it.

How many years had it been since the last of these came in, she thought? Of course she didn't have to think; she _knew_. It was the kind of thing that stuck in one's mind quite clearly.

It was the kind of thing she'd never hoped to see again.

"It is _not_ a good time for this," she snarled, as if accusing the image before her of deliberately inconveniencing her.

"You've a fondness for understatement," a deep voice behind her answered.

Fionnghal turned to face the speaker. A cottontail stood before her, rakish thin and nearly seven feet tall, a good foot-and-a-half better than her. His ears lay cropped tight over the light brown fur of his scalp, and they were the second most striking anatomical feature up there. Top draw went to the spindly brown protrusions radiating off either side of the hare's temples: gnarled, bony prongs coaxed into uneven horns, like the fickle branches of a bonsai tree.

"Our search team is in for trouble, Asher," Fi said. "Thadesch says the Delts are riled to hell over this wreck—"

"They'll be even more riled when they find out that we killed one of their own."

Fionnghal's massive front teeth cemented on edge.

"_What_? How? How could our people be so stupid? Who was it? And _why_?"

"Kakkari Nez," Asher waved a paw. "And it was inadvertent."

"That doesn't matter! We ordered them—"

"To use _any_ and _all_ means to salvage that wreckage before Delta Tribe could get their hands on it," Asher said. "Did you think our orders might not have consequences?"

Fionnghal dropped her eyes, clenching one fist. She felt her teeth nipping at her lip, and then quickly stopped them.

"But I... didn't mean... for—"

"Doesn't matter. And there are more important concerns at the moment, Fionnghal—"

"What could be more important than suddenly having the Delts clawing for our throats?"

"Our team found something in the wreckage." Asher stepped to one side and motioned at the doorway, beckoning to his rodent companion.

She stepped through the doorway, regaining some of her confident swagger.

"Oh... I see. Alright, then. Let's get a call out to maintenance; we should have Spindletop meet us at the cargo deck—"

"They aren't bringing the salvage to cargo..."

Fionnghal looked over at Asher, her brow furrowed. The cottontail didn't reciprocate the look, but kept his eyes resolutely forward.

"...they're taking it to _medical_."

III.

They shook.

It was a delicate ripple, and absent any sound. Not for a time, at least. But then there was that sudden feeling in her knees: a foreboding electricity rising up on the wind. Then that plaintive, mournful cooing echoed in the night, like the wailing of an infant.

And yes: the trees actually shook.

She stood there for a time, hands clasped delicately over her chest and her head cocked. The vulgar lights of the complex barely reached her, throwing shadows across the woods. After a moment a second shadow fell beside her, this one distinctly more rotund.

"So, is the 'Thallomoor Banshee' out tonight, Myrtle?"

The sugar glider's head whipped around. She acknowledged Thadesch with a nod, her massive brown eyes trembling, and absently ground one foot against the earth.

"Restless, too. Prowling the whole of the woods, I think—"

The toad shrugged, checking a silver pocket watch. "Well, it _is_ about time for the rounds, isn't it?"

Myrtle shook her head. "But not like normal. I can pick up the motion through the sound. It's all back and forth: a little neurotic, in a way. Like... 'pacing'."

"Pacing, huh? But at a thousand miles per hour." Thadesch guffawed. The toad reached up and flicked one of Myrtle's fleshy ears, still snickering. "Amazing, those mammalian ears..."

"You've always had a better set on you, haven't you?"

The toad smirked, crossing his ungainly arms. "Oh, I'm nearly as deaf as a post, my dear! But if we're talking _metaphorically_, well, a gentleman never brags."

"Gentlemen, no. But don't spymasters?" Myrtle arched one brow. "The 'Big Three' have had their uses for you, haven't they?"

"Oh, walls talk. What can I say if I'm good at listening? Humble skill, really. No need to oversell it." The toad shrugged.

Myrtle spread her paws in the complex's direction. "I'd say _Filigree_ needs you most desperately."

The toad laughed. "Oh, _Filigree _needs _everything_ most desperately. But that's also why _Filigree_ will never fully trust me. Well, oneof the reasons. Spying is a double-edged sword, you know. And our 'Big Three' treat me quite cagily. Why, just last month Asher went and accused me of bugging the main conference room! The insolent cottontail! Beat me on the head quite fiercely, too. He didn't even have a shred of evidence. It was just a 'feeling', he said. Imagine that: a feeling!"

"I'm sorry about that, Thadesch."

The toad nodded, his face sullen. Eventually, however, a tiny smile wormed over his lips. He chuckled, despite his best effort not to.

"Well, don't be too sorry. I never said Asher was _wrong_..."

Myrtle smiled, shaking her head. She walked along the perimeter of the complex. Thadesch followed her.

"About the, uh..." she motioned into the woods.

"'Neurotic pacing'"?

"Mmm." Myrtle nodded. The complex's harsh perimeter lights beamed off her head, highlighting two black stripes running along the charcoal fur on her face. "Do you think the Speedster is on edge about the ship crash? Like _we_ are, I mean?"

Thadesch shook his massive head. "Oh, I think not. Our 'friend' out there only really cares about that miserable plot of land. So long as the Thallomoor's not involved in anything, well, then _he's_ not involved in anything."

The toad pulled a small pipe from his pocket, lighting it with a match as he spoke.

"Of course the Thallomoor's _never_ involved in anything, is it? So out friend the Speedster finds himself in a state of perpetual 'repose' from our affairs. His choice, of course. Now, the more cynical amongst us might call that repose a 'withdrawal'..."

Myrtle stared into the darkness, nodding.

"Find that a bit depressing, do you?" Thadesch asked.

"Intriguing," the sugar glider answered. She faced the toad, nodding gently. "And, yes: that, too. A little bit."

"Hard not to, I suppose..."

The pair stood together in silence. In time the trees shook once again, rippling gently as that mournful cooing sounded in the darkness, piercing the infinite distance with its plaintive wail.

But then there was another sound, this one coming from overhead. It was a tonal buzzing, faint at first, rising up until it reached an unmistakable pitch.

Myrtle immediately craned her neck, staring up into the twilight sky.

"Thadesch! That isn't—"

"Dames," The toad knocked some ash out of his pipe, nodding. "Seems we've upset Delta Tribe something fierce, my dear."

"They're not... they're not coming _here_, are they?"

He shrugged. "They've got a rather good reason to, now."

Myrtle looked at the toad, her eyes probing.

"Remember: walls talk, my dear. Seems we got into a bit of a skirmish with the Delts: squabbling over something in that ship's wreckage. It's the kind of skirmish involving bodies, you know. Well, I certainly hope it was worth it."

"No salvage is worth killing over," Myrtle stared at her feet, again scraping them against the ground.

"How adorably naïve, my dear. In any event, Asher and Fi are unwrapping their little 'present' as we speak, so we'll know soon enough."

"But the _Dames_?"

Thadesch shrugged. "Simple reconnaissance, maybe. Delts are known to use them for that, as well as the other stuff. All the same I think I'll amble over to the forward batteries, just to steel my nerves, if nothing else. And I suppose the Big Three should hear of this, pronto. That'll delay your foraging, I'm afraid..."

Myrtle shook her head. "No: look."

She motioned along the compound wall to a balcony, set far away from the pair. Up there, high above the ground, a drab-colored body stood against the night sky, black gloves gripping the railing. Its body reflected bright floods that bathed it in light, its neck craned up to the sky, unmoving. That body was encased in a suit as back as obsidian, with a bulbous black helmet shielding the face entirely.

"Hmm." Thadesch grunted. "M'qeulo always has been the observant type."

Myrtle toyed with the straps on her clothing. "Hopefully he can get Asher and Fi away from their salvage. They need to be _ready_..."

"Well, Delta Tribe deals in bluster better than it deals in blows, my dear. And as long as we're running the electromagnetic grid up here that's really all the Delts can deal in. _Bluster_, I mean."

Myrtle looked to one side, pensive. "So, what do we do in the meantime?"

"Oh, we've all our parts to play. The Big Three will square the figures, the civilians will be fretful, grunts like me will do the actual _finagling_, and, as for you, well, you've got the most mission-critical task of all, my dear. Focus on that _foraging_, if you would. I'm bloody starving..."

IV.

M'qeulo met Brady in an upper level corridor. He had the sloth walk with him.

"Eventful night for you, wasn't it?"

The voice rising from that bulky black suit was garbled and scratchy, as if broadcast on a distorted radio speaker.

Brady nodded. "More than most."

"You came back in through the north passage? What's their status?"

"The e-grid is in good shape." The sloth turned his head. "I assume that's what you're interested in?"

"It'll need extra attention in the coming hours—"

"You're sure?"

The black suit stopped walking; its bulbous headgear turned in the sloth's direction.

Brady swallowed. "Of course you are. Well, all the engineers are on duty, already—"

"Good. Give them Miles, too—"

Brady shook his head. "He's down in medical, actually. You know, the 'package'..."

A scoff exploded from M'qeulo's headgear.

"Asher and Fi are down there, too, I think. Did you want to go? Help them, uh, 'deal' with that?"

The black suit continued walking.

"No, I trust them to handle the situation. I need to go to communications, try to get the word out to any and all of our allies..."

"You think it's that bad, huh? Are you planning on broadcasting anything to Thallomoor?"

Another scoff. "Typhoons and tornadoes make terrible allies. One doesn't plead for help from a force of nature, Brapes. And _Filigree_ still has some friends out in the tribes."

"Not nearly as many, these days..."

The pair wound through narrow halls, soon coming to a bank of slanted windows looking down upon a series of rooms far below them. A small bank of complicated-looking beds dotted the room's center, and only one of them was occupied.

The black suit stopped at these windows, leaning forward. That bulbous black headgear pressed up against the glass. Seconds later there was a change in the suit; it started at the helmet, but then radiated out into the torso, the arms and the legs. The suit's jet-black veneer swirled, and then dissolved, leaving a delicate-looking complex of hollow chambers, all of them churning with frothy water.

M'qeulo gazed out from the confines of that watery vortex, his eight legs folded up between his suit's four limbs. The blue-ringed octopus's silver eyes blinked in reaction to the light, focusing on the table far below him.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" He cooed through the suit speakers.

"Sure, but not exactly what I'd call 'worth the aggravation'," Brady crossed his long arms.

"No," M'qeulo agreed. He stood up, his suit again swirling with color until only the obsidian veneer remained. "All things considered, Brapes, you shouldn't have snatched that box away from the edge."

"Just let it fall, you mean? Well, that's particularly heartless, M'qeulo."

"Realistic," the suit shrugged. "In any event, I do trust Asher and Fi to deal with it. In the meantime—"

A shrill, ear-splitting explosion drowned out the octopus's words. A plume of steam erupted from down the corridor, accompanied by a leg-shaking tremor. A bullet soared down their corridor, spinning directly between Brady and M'quelo and missing each by inches. It was an odd caliber bullet, to be sure, and that wasn't the least strange thing about it.

This particular bullet was electric yellow, and it was coated with black spots.

The cheetah tumbled head over heels many times until coming to rest on her rear, head bobbing about dreamily. She was dressed in coveralls, now in tatters, and a small plume of smoke curled up from a prominent cowlick standing erect on the top of her head. She still clenched a wrench tightly in one hand.

"Ooooh..." the cheetah moaned, scratching her temple with the wrench. "That was _not_ the HVAC system..."

Brady stood crouched at the ready. He gasped.

"_Spindletop_! You okay?"

The cheetah smiled sunnily, baring pearl-white teeth.

"Never better!"

A cough escaped her lips, and with it a small plume of black smoke.

Brady and M'quelo exchanged glances, Brady whispering softly.

"Do you have any idea how many civvies we have looking for maintenance work, M'quelo? I've got two-dozen names, each of them ready to replace her—"

"That staffing is _Fionnghal's_ prerogative. And as you know—"

"The cheetah's her pet..."

The suit shrugged. "She simply won't use anyone else. No accounting for talent, certainly. Just have her report to the north passage, immediately—"

"You actually want her near the e-grid? That cheetah—"

"A cheetah's not a cheetah when she's a gopher; Spindletop is to see to any and all of the engineers' needs. Understood?"

The cheetah wobbled on her feet, absently holding one frayed overall strap over her chest while madly scratching at her head. A mess of dust flakes fell to the floor, which she gaped at in apparent wonder.

Another guttural sigh escaped M'quelo's suit.

"That's assuming her concussion is not _too_ terribly severe..."

V.

Yellow fire danced from the ship's engines, spouting a sweet exhaust tail. He could pick up the smell even from his perch overlooking the valley. Up here, at least, the leviathan's surreal proportions seemed manageable to him.

Even if everything else didn't.

But... just why _didn't_ it, anyway?

He blinked as the machine-driven wind brushed his face. A hand came to rest on his shoulder; something sparkled very bright on one finger, glowing green, like a stone in a ring. He turned his head, but that was when the light hit him.

"Quinn—"

The boy screamed, flailing his limbs. Instantly he rolled off the bed, crashing down in a heap on the cold metal floor. His first instinct was to scream, but no sound came out of his throat. He grabbed his bare legs, cradling them in agony as a fierce tingling raged through them, like a thousand shards of glass sunk deep into his flesh. He could feel his carotids hammering away; spots came to his eyes. He fell, landing hard on the ground.

After a time— he couldn't say how long— the spots in his vision subsided, followed by that tingling in his legs. Soon he could hear his own shallow breathing, and then, finally, he managed to get to his haunches, and then his feet.

The boy stumbled about the large, empty room. He managed to find a sink in one corner, complete with a mirror. A face stared back at him: hazel-eyed, sandy-haired. Freckles ruled the cheeks, even dotting its delicate, narrow protrusion of a nose.

The boy touched the contours of that face, hesitant, as if testing the burner on a warm stove. Just beneath those disheveled dishwater bangs, spanning the length of the forehead, a small series of dots stood out on fair skin: a constellation of wounds. They were sensitive to the touch; when pressed they bled.

Those hazel eyes in the mirror grew wide.

He ran his hands down his clothing: a thin, green medical gown of curious proportions. It didn't fit right, not like he thought a medical gown should, and it wasn't 'normal', like he thought one should be. It lacked an open back, instead bearing only a small circular hole at the coccyx.

"Almost... embarrassing... as the real thing."

That was kind of a pun, wasn't it? He tried to laugh.

Instead he almost passed out again.

He looked up, dreamy, and stumbled over to a nearby table. Of many other things laid out there one object caught his eye: a jumpsuit, dark navy verging on black, and a broken silver chain which bore nothing on it. The chain he took, and the jumpsuit he fingered. The minute he touched that starchy fabric he felt another pain starting in his legs, working up through the rest of his body.

"Th— thousand shards of glass..."

His voice was an inaudible mess: a hoarse whisper. Luckily, he could think clearly enough. And he thought that what he felt right now was cold: extreme and unrelenting _cold_.

The boy willed that phantom pain out of him. He stripped out of the medical gown, cursorily inspecting his body for damage, and then he donned the jumpsuit, nearly falling several times as he weakly struggled into the garment. It was a perfect fit, and truthfully the boy felt like he was wearing nothing at all. There was something _natural _about this suit.

But what was it?

Pockets dotted the jumpsuit : hips, rear and lapel. The latter bore embossed characters, nearly invisible on the dark fabric of the suit. It was a letter-number series. The boy mouthed this to himself, but was unable to make anything out of it. He repeated it, verbally this time, but found it still unfamiliar.

"S... 5618…"

His tunnel-vision eventually expanded; the boy took stock of the room around him. He rounded his bed, coming to the opposite side.

And then he slipped on the carnage over there.

The boy landed hard on the floor, lying beside a pool of rancid fluid and jelly. His eyes couldn't place the gunk, but when the scent hit his nose he fell to his knees, holding back vomit. Panic welled up in his chest, like a knot tightening around his heart.

"B— _blood_?"

Suddenly his head exploded in pain: a shrill alarm pealed from just beyond the confines of the room. Bright red lights flashed all around him. This didn't exactly help his nausea.

He got to his feet, hands plaster over his ears, and stumbled out of the room heading for the corridors beyond.

It was a struggle the whole way though: it took extreme willpower just to move his legs, and on that resource he felt severely overdrawn. But the sound of weird, guttural coos and clicks coming from the many branches in that hallway motivated his muscles just enough. It was an eternity, but soon he found himself outside.

It was night: humid, warm. The breeze was wonderful, bringing gooseflesh to his skin, giving him the most peculiar sensation.

He actually felt 'alive'.

More weird, guttural coos sounded very near him. The boy ducked behind an orderly row of strange-looking turrets, his face buried in the grass, as heavy footfalls sounded on the opposite side of the devices. He lay flat as he could, barely able to see the figures opposite him: both were bipeds, and both had four limbs, apiece.

That was where their similarities stopped, however.

One of the creatures was lean, and very tall. A cloudy tuft of a tail suggested his species, and the long, cropped ears atop his head confirmed that hypothesis. But a pair of fierce, bony horns cast that suspicion into doubt.

"J—_jackalope_?" The boy mouthed these words, his lips cemented in terror.

The other creature was unmistakable, but no less strange: a frog, massive and terrible with a gut like an air balloon. These creatures bickered back and forth for a time, and all in that weird, guttural cooing. The noise hurt the boy's ears; he felt the urge to cradle his wounded forehead as the shrill sounds dug into his brain.

After a few minutes, though, the pain was less severe.

The figures eventually walked off, leaving the boy alone amongst the battery of turrets.

He got to his feet, running one hand along the strange devices before him. They were all some kind of artillery, with a console on one side and guns opposite. He put his hands on two grips set into one of the consoles, and immediately it lit up; there was a harsh click, and then his turret came free, swinging about on its base as the boy moved the grips.

A sudden rustle in the trees startled him; a shadow loomed in the darkness, and then descended from the canopy, gliding down upon him like a leaf. The boy screamed— mostly a hoarse and soundless thing— and instinctively rotated the gun to face the shape.

And then, just as instinctively, he pulled the trigger.

_Fwomp_!

Smoke flared from the barrel, along with a tight-balled projectile. The shadow shrieked as it was struck, falling to the earth in a heap.

He got to tiptoes, looking over the barrel of the turret: a large mesh net now lay on the grass some twenty meters away, and struggling inside that net was a sugar glider, about five and a half feet tall. The animal writhed and screeched in that strange pattern of squeaks, struggling to move along the ground. A glint beside the net revealed the object of her desire.

He ran over to the creature and retrieved the dagger beside her. The sugar glider's eyes grew wide as he stood over her; her shrieks grew panicked, and her struggles beneath the net furious. In desperation he pressed her forehead back, putting the knife snug against her throat with a shaking hand.

"S— stop. _Stop_..." His voice quivered.

The glider stared at the boy, her face scrunched in terror. Eventually her squeaky cooing sounded again, but much calmer and slower. She repeated herself several times, and as she did this something most remarkable happened.

"W— what?" The boy blinked in confusion, shaking his head. "_What_ did you say?"

The sugar glider waited a moment to speak. When she did she made only one sound. It was still just an odd, guttural squeak.

Only now the boy could understand it.

"N—name?" She whispered.

The boy's eyes widened. He shook his head, sputtering.

"My name... it's Myrtle." The glider's words were slow and calm. "Myrtle. So, what's _yours_?"

"Qu— Quinn?"

"Quinn," Myrtle nodded gently. "H— hello, Quinn."

Quinn's pressure on the glider's neck lessened. "Where am I? What..." He took a better look at Myrtle, wagging his head.

"I'm... over the Rainbow, obviously."

The glider nodded again. "You were on a ship. It was called the _Rainbow Runner_; it crashed." She waited a moment for the boy to process this, and then looked down at the knife against her throat. "Quinn? That's a barking knife; it's very good for foraging in these woods. It— it's not the kind of thing that's fit for a slaughter. One doesn't carve meat with it. And you don't really want to kill me, do you, Quinn?"

The boy's eyes, distant and dreamy, soon snapped to attention. He slowly removed the blade from the glider's throat, falling back onto his rear.

"How did you get out?" Myrtle asked. "It's dangerous, right now. We have enemies, you see, and they're planning an attack—"

The boy got to his feet.

"What were you planning to do with _me_, huh? What were you keeping me for?"

"They saved you from the wreckage—"

"Then where are the others? The others from my ship? What did you do with _them_?"

Myrtle looked to one side.

"They said that your pod was the only piece of, uh, 'intact' salvage taken from the ship."

Quinn's face waxed; he stepped back.

"I'm sorry," Myrtle added.

The boy shook his head; he looked at the glider, and then the knife in his hand. He stabbed the earth about twenty meters away from Myrtle, leaving the hilt exposed for her, and then stumbled off for the darkness of the woods beyond the compound.

"Don't!" Myrtle wiggled under the net. "Quinn! You shouldn't be out, right now! Our enemies—"

"_You_ could be my enemies!" He snarled. "Y— you could have... could have _killed_ them all!"

"Quinn! Listen to me! Don't go that way, at least! It's the Thallomoor. That's the Speedster's woods! It's patrolled; you won't make it far in there!"

The boy considered the sugar glider for a moment, still struggling mightily under the net, but he ignored her words. He took off, racing into the comforting darkness stretched out before him.

VI.

Twenty minutes into the thicket the clouds gave way to sickly moonlight. He stumbled over the gnarled roots of dark trees and thorny bushes, panting with his efforts. He had little strength, but plenty of motivation to flee that strange complex.

The woods seemed largely empty, save for the occasional cricket chirp or deep hoot of an owl. Once, though, about a half-hour into his journey, he felt the trees around him suddenly shake, quivering like a bank of tuning forks. This was followed by an odd sound: mournful cooing, almost like the scream of a distressed cat. It chilled his blood, causing him to stop momentarily. But soon the sound lessened, the trees' quivering stopped and he screwed up his nerve, forging ahead into the black woods. Twenty minutes later his fatigue caught up with his motivation; the boy slowed, pausing to doze against a tree trunk.

And then he found all the 'motivation' he could possibly need.

A growl behind him brought to boy to his feet with a start; yellow teeth leered out of the darkness, and there was more than one set. Slowly, dreadfully, paws trod into the chartreuse moonlight, revealing a four-legged horror: frothing jaws salivating at the sight of the boy, and pointed ears standing at rapt attention. Three additional hounds emerged from the darkness, their jaundiced eyes narrowed into demonic slits.

Quinn's lips parted, trembling. Somehow, the phrase 'nice doggies' just didn't seem adequate at the moment.

He let his legs do the talking, instead.

The snarling beasts had trouble chasing the boy through the thick of the woods, but soon the predators and their prey emerged onto a sloping moonscape of low-lying scrub: plenty of open space to chase down a persistent meal. Black cliffs rose up in the distance, riddled with caverns, but these were impossibly far away. Too far for a boy's legs, anyway.

He tripped, falling to the ground. When he rolled over the hounds were there, all four circling him, snarling, barking.

Salivating.

When the first one lunged for him he just barely got his arm up over his face; the bite tore into the flesh of his elbow, sending him falling back, screaming. Tears welled-up in his eyes as another hound crouched at the ready.

The boy closed his eyes.

Just then the ground beneath him shuddered. Pebbles in the scrub hopped about, chaotic, like drops of water cast over a stove's burner.

The noise didn't come first; what came first was the blur.

The hound lunging at Quinn disappeared in a streak of manic colors. The boy didn't have long to marvel at this: instantly a booming wail exploded over the land, sending him tumbling backwards several times, head over feet. When he landed, dazed, he looked off into the distance: the hound that lunged for him was lying on its side beside a bank in the land, whimpering, its legs twitching.

The other hounds soon resumed their attack against the boy, piling onto him.

But then the blur and the boom were on them, as well.

Quinn was ejected from the fray, roughly tossed away by a white-gloved hand. He landed hard, barely in time to see a pair of long red shoes standing over him. They looked ungodly thick, and each one bore a white stripe over the toes. As soon as they appeared they were gone, and the blur was back on the remaining hounds. Five seconds of furious sound and screams later the pack retreated, scattering back into the thick of the woods, all of them whimpering.

Quinn slowly got to his feet. A hundred meters before him, silhouetted in the moonlight, a spike-headed figure rested with its back to the boy. The moonlight highlighted its blue fur: a mess of quills dotting a slender body. It sat on one knee, arms resting on the kneecaps, panting. Its legs were naked, save for two strange objects spanning the length of its outside thigh and calves: silver light glinted from them, as if they were metal, and dotting the odd devices were tiny circles of light, pulsing at regular intervals. How these glowing strips of metal clung to the hedgehog's legs was a mystery to the boy.

When Quinn took a hesitant step forward the figure's head turned abruptly, exposing an electric eye blazing with anger.

"Th— thank—"

That was all he could get out; in a flash of sound and color the figure was on the boy, one red shoe kicking Quinn down. Air exploded from the boy's lungs as the figure pressed forcefully downward, his body atop the boy's body. His skinny forearm pressed tight over Quinn's neck, making the boy choke. A chain dangled from the creature's neck, and it on a brilliant-cut jewel sparkled. It was green, but with pink features: a fist-size emerald. The pink highlights in the stone seemed to sparkle unnaturally, but this strange luster faded even as the boy watched it.

The hedgehog's eyes narrowed as its face came down near Quinn's. The boy gagged as the creature snarled.

"Human..." the hedgehog said.

Quinn tried to pull the forearm off his neck, but he was sorely overmatched. He thrashed about, helpless.

The hedgehog put its nose against the boy's chest, sniffing loud and deep.

Spots came to Quinn's eyes.

The hedgehog looked back up at the boy.

Quinn felt himself slipping; he could feel himself going...

The hedgehog shook its head slowly, as if reaching a conclusion.

"Juvenile..."

The pressure on Quinn's throat lessened slightly, infinitesimally. It was enough for the spots in his eyes to evaporate, at least.

"Why are you here?" The hedgehog whispered, menacing.

"I— I was on a ship. It crashed, and—"

The hedgehog's forearm pressed tighter against Quinn's throat, cutting off his words. He stood, releasing the boy from his grip.

"Not that. Why are you _here_?" The hedgehog spread his gloved hands to either side, motioning to the desolate land around them.

Quinn stood.

"I was in the compound beyond the woods," he explained. "They had me—"

"_Filigree_," the hedgehog shook its head. He walked off a ways, muttering under his breath.

"For God's sake, Pew..."

"What?" Quinn asked.

"Why are you here?" The hedgehog turned abruptly.

"I had to escape, I think. They were—"

"_No_," the hedgehog wagged a finger in front of Quinn's face, eyes menacing. "Why are you on this _plane_? Why did your ship come through the Rainbow?"

The boy looked down at the earth beneath him, uncertain.

"I don't know—"

The hedgehog's hand snapped forward, snaring Quinn's throat again. There was little pressure, but from the creature's menacing eyes there was certainly the _threat_ of pressure. He was in no condition to resist.

"I really _don't_ know—"

"Nobody crosses the Rainbow without a reason—"

"I can't _remember_!"

"Not the kind of thing you'd forget..."

Pressure began welling-up over Quinn's neck.

"I have no _memory_," Quinn belted. Tears welled up in his eyes. "I don't know why we came; I don't know where I come from; I don't know when we left; I don't know who I came with. I don't even know _who I am_!"

The hedgehog's eyes flickered; slowly, ever so slowly, he released the boy's neck, pushing him back roughly.

"Then what _do_ you know?" The hedgehog asked.

The boy sniffled. He shook his head. "I know my name is Quinn. At least, I think it is..."

Quinn walked off a ways, brushing his sleeve over his nose. He shook his head.

"I didn't mean to trespass; I don't know what's happening, or _why_ I'm here. Back at that compound they told me that everyone else— all the people from my ship..." He closed his eyes. "I don't know if there's anyone _left_ to tell me anything..." Quinn looked down at his own hands, surveying his shaking palms. "I don't... I don't know if there's _anyone_ left..."

He felt the hedgehog behind him; Quint faced him, head bowed. The hedgehog smiled, one corner of his mouth upturned, sardonic, and he tapped the boy's chin.

"Chin up, now..."

Quinn raised his head, returning the hedgehog's gaze. For the first time he noticed the hedgehog's smirk.

He was about to reciprocate that little smile when the hedgehog's fingers battered his throat: two swift taps in rhythmic succession on either side, right against the carotids.

He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

VII.

It was an unpopular decision, to be sure.

But Fionnghal thought she had little choice in the matter.

"And, if I may humbly ask, my lady," Thadesch said, "just how far are we to encroach on the Speedster's territory?"

"Far enough for him to find you," she answered. "Or for you to find the boy, whichever comes first."

Myrtle helped Brady fit into his forest gear; the sloth struggled to put on his pack.

"Delts could be coming at us anytime, Fi—"

"Which means you should hurry. Once we get the boy under wing—"

"Respectfully..."

Finnoghal and Brady both looked over at Myrtle, who nervously fingered a small rucksack.

"Yes, Myrtle?" The rat said.

"Respectfully... what then? What will be done with him, then?"

"If Delta Tribe attacks, well..." Fionnghal looked to one side. "He could be on our list of 'contingencies', assuming the worst."

Myrtle's eyes quivered.

"That's... not..."

Fionnghal glared at the sugar glider, who abruptly ended her thought on that point.

Thadesch shrugged his burly shoulders, testing a flashlight as he spoke.

"Well, 'the worst' seems an unlikely scenario, doesn't it? And anyway it'll be damned near impossible to root that little bugger out of the Thallomoor—"

Myrtle's ears suddenly twitched.

"I don't think you'll have to..."

Fionnghal looked over at Myrtle, but then back at the woods as her legs trembled. The tree line quivered.

A loud boom sent leaves billowing out the black maw of the Thallomoor, swirling into the compound's floodlights in an ordered plume. The faint glow of small lights pierced the darkness; they moved with organic rhythm, outlining a pair of blue legs. Another light— the brilliant pink sparkle of a jewel on a chain— faded quickly as the figure approached. Seconds later the figure emerged from the darkness of the woods: it was the hedgehog, walking forward slowly, bearing a small, limp body in his hands.

He walked past Brady and Thadesch, paying no heed to either of them, and then stopped before Fionnghal. He dumped Quinn at her feet, and then wordlessly turned around. He looked back at the rat briefly. When he did so that mysterious rose color in the emerald around his neck seemed to grow again, if only a little.

"Littering's forbidden in the Thallomoor, Pew; go dump your trash somewhere else."

No one said a word as the hedgehog walked back the way he came. Only Fionnghal stepped forward, her voice subdued.

"Sonic..."

The hedgehog turned his head.

Fionnghal swallowed. "Delta Tribe...they may be coming here. I just though you should know. We... we'd be happy to have y—"

A flash of color, a blast of sound, and a whirlpool of leaves followed.

And then nothing.

Everyone shielded their eyes from the spectacle, and then there was silence. All three faces looked over at Fionnghal, but no words were spoken.

"What are we looking at, huh?" She barked. The rat pointed to Quinn and cocked her head back at the complex entryway. "Get him inside, and then get to your posts!"

Thadesch approached the boy, lifting him up over one shoulder; the boy groaned, groggy.

"Hmm. Still breathing and all. Rather nice of the 'Banshee', wasn't it?"

Brady smiled at this, watching as the toad carried the boy inside. He noticed Fionnghal still staring at the black maw of the woods, unmoving. He was about to go to her, but just then M'quelo appeared from the entryway, his black suit shining against the floodlights. The octopus cocked the suit's head quizzically, motioning to Fionnghal.

Brady smiled. "Uh, just a little brush with 'typhoons and tornadoes'. That's all."

The suit nodded, moving past the sloth. Brady returned to the complex while M'quelo stood beside the rat. Fionnghal looked over at him.

"What news?" She asked.

"It's worse than we feared," he said. "They have the _whole_ of Delta Tribe mobilized, not just the local outfit. No: they're all coming in from all over the Dolamiram. They've come to arms _en masse_. Now, that can only mean—"

"That _he's _taken an interest," Fionnghal nodded. "I suppose he would, wouldn't he?"

The suit crossed its arms.

"It would be hard not to. After all, we just _doubled_ the population of his species on this planet, didn't we?"

M'quelo walked off, moving for the complex entryway. The rat turned to him.

"I'll do it, M'quelo. I'll do it _myself_, if it comes to that—"

"A little late for that, now. Isn't it, Fionnghal?"

The suit moved up into the complex, calling back to the rat one last time.

"But I'll leave that up to you, of course. That isn't your _fault_, what happened in medical, but all the same this is somewhat your _responsibility_, isn't it? So is the boy, then. You have two hours, tops. After that even the boy's lifeless corpse won't be enough to sate the Delts."

Fionnghal crossed her arms, nibbling at her lower lip. She wagged her head, forcefully stopping that movement.

"If it's a choice between our civvys and a child, well, that's no difficult choice, is it?"

"Not to a logician, no." M'quelo conceded. "Which is why your hesitation surprises me, so."

The rat's brow arched.

"Squeamishness is not the reputation of your species, is it, Fionnghal? Or should I say 'Pew'?"

The rat faced away from the suit, her teeth cemented on edge.

"It may be time for you to get comfortable in your own skin, my dear," he continued, "before we're all forcefully parted from our own." The octopus walked through the entryway. "Because for whatever ounce of mercy you have in you, well, the Eggman has a pound of hate, doesn't he?"

Fionnghal's shoulders shuddered. She looked back at M'quelo.

"We'll be ready for him," she snarled.

The suit shook its head.

"Somehow, my dear, I do sorely and honestly doubt that..."


	3. Silverheart

"Silverheart"

I.

He rubbed his wrists, reassured by the return of blood to his fingers.

"They hurt?" The cottontail asked.

"Tingle," Quinn answered, shaking his head.

The sloth was on the other side of the medical bay, leaning against a table. He cocked his head, apologetic.

"Well, I am sorry about that. I'm used to cuffing wrists with a bit more fur on them. Fur can be slippery, so the cuffs _have_ to be tight, you see..."

"It's probably not that," the boy replied. "I've been feeling kinda 'tingly' all over, ever since I woke up."

The cottontail— Asher, he called himself— leaned down near the boy's head, his dark eyes piercing.

"Now this is our 'take two'," he growled. "We're not planning on doing any more running, are we? Those cuffs can go back on, you know..."

Quinn shook his head, emphatic.

"Good."

"Myrtle—" Quinn said.

Asher cocked his brow.

"The sugar glider."

"What about her?"

"W— was she alright? I didn't mean to hurt her. It's just that she scared me..."

Asher scoffed. "She scared _you_? Let me tell you something, boy: it's _you_ who's liable to scare the living daylights out of every creature on this planet—"

"Hey! I'm not exactly a _threat_ here, am I? I'm like twelve!"

Quinn paused, staring down at the bed he sat on. He kicked one foot absently.

"At least, I'm _about_ twelve, I think..."

"We could cut him open and look for rings, hmm?" The sloth— Brady— chuckled. He shook his head. "Oh, I tease, kid. I tease!"

Asher tapped the boy's chest, scowling.

"_Maybe_," he whispered.

A voice sounded from one darkened corner of the bay; it was female, and it was gentle.

"How's the arm?" She asked.

Quinn rolled-up the sleeve of his jumpsuit and extended his right arm; it was bandaged from shoulder to forearm, cradling the wound he earned from those hounds in the woods.

"Fine," he said.

The rat stepped out of the shadows. Her wispy tail swished freely; her blue eyes pierced the gloom of the room. Her dun fur blended in with the walls— a drab and unremarkable coat.

"Figures," she said. "Sonic does good work."

"Um, who?"

A pause followed; the rat stared at the boy, her eyes intent. Quinn swallowed. After a moment he felt more like a predator's meal being appraised, rather than a captive being interrogated.

Or _whatever_ he was at the moment.

"What's your name?" She finally asked.

"It's, uh, Quinn. I don't know my full name."

The sloth leaned back against the table, snickering.

"_Qui'nloesh_, from the looks of him. Am I right?"

Asher snorted through his nose; he stepped back, trying to maintain a serious demeanor, but then a chuckle escaped his lips.

The rat's icy stare did not waver for a minute.

"You are entirely ignorant of your origins: who you are, where you come from?"

"I'm _not _making any of this up!" The boy snarled. "It's _true_. I can't—"

The rat shook her head.

"Relax. We know that you're not lying."

The boy sat back. "How do you know that, exactly?"

"Evidence of nonspecific hippocampal depotentiation—"

"Geah!" Quinn screamed, nearly falling off the medical bed as a hidden voice sounded near his ear. Asher was there to catch the boy, roughly forcing him back into place.

Quinn looked down at the far side of his bed: a pair of golden ears stood erect, just on the fringes of his vision. A furry little head peeked up over the bedside: it was a fox, all of three-and-a-half feet tall at his best, green-eyed with a black button nose atop a prominent muzzle.

One thick, luxurious tail swayed rhythmically behind the fox's body. And beside that there was another one. The boy thought about rubbing his eyes— what a trite cliché!— but he was fairly confident in his visual analysis. Simply put, this fox had two tails.

After everything else he'd seen in the past few hours Quinn thought he could live with that fact.

The boy blinked. "Uh... what's 'hippo/camel deportation'?"

"Rank speciesism, I'd say!" Brady smirked. "I've got nothing against _either_ of 'em—"

"Brain damage," Asher clarified.

The boy's eyes widened.

"_Brian_ damage? But I can tie my shoes just fine..."

The little two-tailed fox wagged his head, crawling up onto the bed beside him. He spoke again in his prepubescent voice.

"Not questioning your semantic prowess. _Episodic_."

Quinn again looked to Asher, his face scrunched.

"The damage affected your _memories_, not your skills. Explains why you can tie your shoes, but can't remember what you had for breakfast last week."

"Probably the same thing he had for the past _several_ weeks," the rat said. "Basic chemical nutrients, fed straight into his cryo tube aboard that ship."

"The _Rainbow Runner_," Quinn whispered, again looking down at his feet.

The little fox leapt up on the bed, balancing on tiptoes and gyrating his two tails for stability. He grabbed a device hanging from a metal arm; it was an oblong box, complete with a bank of horizontal lights. He set this in front of the boy's face, bathing his head in color.

"I have brain damage?" Quinn repeated.

The little fox shrugged. "It might help to think of the fact that your brain _should_ be mostly liquefied jelly, on account of the crash—"

"It doesn't!"

"Be still," Asher ordered.

The fox put one hand on Quinn's chin; it was girded in a white glove. Quinn then noticed a peculiarity about this fox (other than that whole 'extra tail' thing): a bandage graced his forehead, running lengthwise from behind his right eye, extending up to his ear.

Lights blinked on and off, washing over Quinn's face. After several seconds the light show ended and the little fox looked back at the rat, shaking his head.

The rat nodded. "Right. Thank you, Tails."

Quinn strained his eyes, staring at one corner of the oblong box's frame. Gibberish was carved into the plastic: unintelligible squiggles. But for one brief moment those lines danced and waved in his head, settling into a certain order. It was enough for the boy to interpret, at least.

"'ProwerTech'?" He muttered.

The rat smiled. "Already starting to read, huh? And you're just about fluent in the highspeak, now. Admittedly, that's impressive. Rest assured, kid: your brain isn't _entirely_ liquefied jelly."

"Kinda feels like it..."

The rat's smile widened. She beckoned with one bony finger.

Quinn slid off the bed and approached her. Asher began to follow him, but the rat held up a hand. Once the boy was before her she knelt down, staring at him eye-to-eye.

"Wanna take a walk with me?"

The boy cocked his head, looking back around the room, and then he nodded.

II.

The sparks arced dramatically over his chest plate. M'quelo winced inside the watery confines of his suit as he forced his arms together, connecting a set of mismatched wires. He lay supine, wedged beneath a power conduit. The suit legs kicked absently every few minutes as the octopus worked.

Kakkari watched this curious spectacle, reclining on a tough bench behind a row of bars. The chameleon's upper body was bare; he cradled a large flap of skin against his chest, shorn open from naval to nipple. Green blood still gummed up the wound, reeking like putrid garbage. His breathing was labored, but regular; his eyes were yellow, like sickly harvest moons.

"You and Spindletop should switch jobs, M'quelo. We'd _all _live longer, I think."

Cracking electricity again roared from the conduit.

"We can't all be rated for 50,000 volts, can we?" The octopus's words dripped like venom from his suit speakers.

"I detect some snippiness there, o eight-legged one—"

"If I were you, Kakkari, I would focus all my energy on regenerating. Shouldn't you be asleep, right now?"

The chameleon shook his head. "No. I think that when Delta Tribe comes for us I'd just as soon be awake..."

A small radio lay beside the black suit; its speakers crackled.

"M'quelo. Brady," the sloth said. "Miles just finished his test on the human; we didn't get any useful information. Fi has him now, and she's talking him be, uh... 'dealt' with. I'll update you as things develop."

Kakkari rose off the bench. He ambled to the bars in front of him, slowly removing his hand from his chest. That loose flap of skin now clung to the rest of his torso, dangling in a tentative union.

"Brady, huh?" He said.

The octopus did not respond.

"_Your_ protégé, right? Well, he could make a decent security chief, I suppose. He was always competent enough as _my_ deputy. And at least he follows the good old chain o' command, doesn't he? No matter how suicidal, how _stupid_, how—"

The suit pulled itself out from under the conduit. Its veneer swirled with color, revealing the octopus underneath. M'quelo glared at the chameleon.

"I wouldn't be angry, Kakkari. You know that Asher could have done far worse to you. You know he _should _have—"

The chameleon crossed his arms, covering his wound.

"Asher did what he should have done. No hard feelings, there. But both of us know what the _real_ problem is, don't we? We both know who isn't pulling their own weight, decision-wise. We _both_ know who needs a swift kick in her sweet little rodent ass—"

"You were out of line, Kakkari, and you paid for it. It's that simple."

The chameleon sulked.

"_Filigree _isweak right now, M'quelo. If we don't grow a pair in short order then we're just fodder for the Delts—"

The suit held up a screwdriver.

"Exactly why I'm working to keep this rust-bucket together. As long as the e-grid holds, _we _hold. And we'll discuss your status in the organization after the battle, assuming you have one at all. Now _sleep_, Kakkari. Right now I think that's a far better use for your time than screeching like a songbird—"

"I can think of one better use for my time." The chameleon leaned closer to the bars. "Let me out, M'quelo. Let me _help_."

The suit scoffed. Its veneer faded to black again as it walked off. Kakkari poked his head out the bars.

"M'quelo! This is an _emergency_! I'm not asking to be a security chief right now, just a common grunt. You need all the help you can get!"

The suit stopped, turning its head. It again approached the bars.

"Well, in point of fact, you're absolutely right, Kakkari. I _do_ need a little help right now..."

III.

Fionnghal walked unhurriedly, letting the boy slow his pace ever so often as they moved through the hall. He walked in a daze, seemingly in awe of the sprawling complex. But each time Fionnghal felt the need to move faster it was a simple matter: she moved forward until her swishing tail began to strike at the boy's head, prompting him back to the here-and-now.

Oh, and _that_ was a good place to start the conversation, wasn't it?

"Do you know where you are right now?" She asked. "On the plane, I mean?"

The boy looked up at the rodent, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"This place... it's called 'Mobius', isn't it?"

She nodded. "Well, we don't call it that. _Your_ species does, though."

The boy rubbed his forehead as they walked. Fionnghal noticed the pained look on his face.

"Your headaches are a side effect of the treatment."

The boy again looked up.

"Neural stimulation therapy," the rat explained. "It's the thing that lets you speak our language."

"Is that why I've got these, uh, _holes_ in my forehead?"

Fionnghal nodded. "Yes. And trust me, those _didn't _contribute to your brain damage..."

"Still... I can't understand everything. That sloth, he called me _Qui'nloesh_, or something like that?"

The rat smiled, shaking her head.

"Well, that was in lowspeak. It's the language used by individual species. Your neural program doesn't cover any of those. You only know highspeak: the language used _between_ species. Ugly thing, isn't it? Guttural, bland. Lacks the grace and nuance of _rat_ lowspeak, certainly."

Fionnghal drew a deep breath and then let it out, unleashing a string of sounds that lilted from her throat like the quivering strings of a piano, if plucked by hand. The timbre was categorically different from her highspeak.

"See what I mean?" she asked.

Quinn nodded. "But, then what does _Qui'nloesh_ mean in, uh, 'sloth'?"

The pair came to a railing overlooking a large cylindrical chasm. The rat leaned against it.

"'Furless'." She smiled.

Quinn cocked his brow. "They've never seen a human before? Besides..." the boy tousled his dishwater blond hair, grunting.

Fionnghal's lips spread into a mischievously smirk. "Ah, not exactly. Two things. One: you weren't wearing your jumper when we pulled you from your cryo tube. And, two: you're twelve at an _outside _estimate, at best..."

A small tick wracked the boy's face; soon he blushed, beet-red.

The rat pointed at his face. "I've been told humans do that," she said. "Still, you're not quite like a chameleon, are you?"

"Never mind that," he muttered, slinking over to the railing.

"Myrtle was fine, by the way. Just so you know. She doesn't blame you for what happened."

"That's good." The boy's eyes were drawn to the center of the chamber, where bright white orbs of light danced along an elegant, helical metal scaffold, bobbing about like bubbles in soda water.

"Pretty, isn't it?" The rat said.

"I've seen this before: these lights..."

"In those deep, dark woods, perhaps?"

The boy looked over at the rat.

"Yeah. Those things on the hedgehog's legs. How does he do it? How can he move so fast?"

Fionnghal cocked her head at the large cylinder behind them.

"QED," she said.

Quinn blinked.

"Uh... you didn't explain anything..."

"What?" The rat crossed her arms. "It's the QEDs. 'Quantum effects discriminators'. They're the basis for our more advanced technology."

"Oh. Well, what do they do?"

"All the leg work. No pun intended". Fionnghal motioned to the device beyond the railing. "They can do most anything, if you know how to set them up. The ones in our fusion plant help keep the reaction under control. As for the ones in Sonic's legs, well, I think you've seen what they can do."

"But how do they work?" Quinn asked.

"You got six months to listen to a lecture on wave-particle duality?"

The boy scratched his head. "Well, technically..."

"Too bad. _I_ don't have that kind of time."

Fionnghal continued walking down the corridor; the boy followed her, dodging the wisps of her tail.

"The gist, then?" He asked.

"I'm not obliged to dumb things down for children..."

The boy suddenly smiled. "Uh, you don't know, do you?"

"I didn't say that. Anyway, it's not my department, kid—"

"So you really have no clue—"

"No." The rat scowled.

They walked in silence for a time; eventually Quinn broke it.

"Well, at least now I know what you rats do instead of blushing."

She stopped walking, looking back at the boy with a scowl.

"What?"

He motioned to Fionnghal's tail.

"Looks like it gets kinda 'twisty' when you're flustered—"

"How'd you like to go back in that tube, little boy?"

Quinn fell back a step. "And that hedgehog: you say his name is 'Sonic'? Guess that fits, doesn't it?"

"Mmm. But it's not spelled the way you're probably thinking. There's about a half-dozen extra consonants wedged in there. Two x's, surprisingly..."

They came to a large conference room. Fionnghal sat against a row of thick windows while the boy wandered around.

"So, Sonic is a friend of yours? He works for you?"

That rat scoffed.

"Uh, both those questions have _very_ different answers, kid..."

The boy reached a far wall; an ornamental emblem dangled from it. It was comprised of many delicate silver threads, all interlocking in a complicated pattern and converging on the center, where an embossed coat of arms lay. It depicted a mess of gnarled, interlocking tree branches and two words beneath that: "_Sylvilagus____Keratinous_." Names dotted each silver spindle, and some were smaller than others. The largest three spindles, all set apart equidistant, bore the names "Fionnghal", "M'quelo" and "Asher".

"What's with the coat of arms?"

"Our group is called _Filigree_," she explained. "That's the crest of a certain city. The city _of _cities. It was the light of the world, in its time."

"Is that where you're from?"

Fionnghal looked down at the plush floor, scraping one foot over the carpet.

"I was born there," she said. "Sulumac'dun. That was its name."

The boy looked over at her, eyes probing.

"Mobius's royal family once ruled from there; their strength united us all. It was the center of power here for more generations than I'd care to count."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing lasts forever. There was a war; the city turned to dust."

"Did you fight in it? The war?"

Fionnghal shook her head. "I was younger than _you_ when the city fell. I still had more fur, though—"

"Can you _please _forget about that?" Quinn fought his blush reflex, unsuccessfully.

"After that the world fractured; species, ideologies, they all drifted apart. Fought violently amongst one another. Nothing like the war, mind you, but still. It's violent, like I said. We call this the 'time of the Tribes'."

"Tribes?" Quinn brushed one hand over the silver bauble. "So, you're all a 'tribe'?"

"Us? _Filigree _is a little different. We don't call ourselves a 'tribe' because that's not what we really want to be. In practice, though? Well, right now that's basically what we are."

"And Sonic?"

"He's a Speedster."

Quinn looked back at Fionnghal, cocking one eyebrow.

"Yes. Yes, he is—"

The rat held up a finger. "_Also_ not spelled the way you're thinking. It's a special title, traditional. They dusted it off after the fall of the royal family. Speedsters are warriors: they're the most 'flashy' and impressive-looking members of their respective tribes."

"So, they're defenders?"

"_Deterrents_, more like. Ever see a cockatiel raise its crest? Makes it look bigger, meaner, tougher. Helps head-off a confrontation before it comes to blows, you know? And the best way to survive a fight is to avoid it, right? Before the tribes started using their Speedsters, well, things were even worse..."

"The Speedsters: they're all talk and no action, then?"

Fionnghal smirked. "I didn't say that. And Sonic is quite the opposite, in fact."

"What's _his_ tribe?"

The rat shrugged. "Owls and the gnarled oak trees. Sonic runs a _territory_, not a tribe."

"'Thallomoor'," Quinn nodded. "And this Sonic, he's not really a 'people person', is he?"

"Not so very antisocial, really. And he did have a tribe, once. We both did. It was called 'Omega'. It was set it up to carry on after the royal family's demise. It was supposed to be their successor. _Supposed_ to be, anyway. After that, well..."

"No, I mean Sonic is not a _people_ person."

Quinn motioned to his body, moving his hands down from his shoulders to his lower body.

Fionnghal looked out the window. "Wouldn't say that, either, kid. Truth be told, Sonic actually _likes_ humans—"

"He almost choked me to death! Guy's a _devil_!"

"He _appreciates_ them, at least. But he's a nonissue. After our tribe dissolved some of the remnants from Omega started _Filigree,_ trying to keep its spirit alive. Others? They didn't..."

"And what about this other group I keep hearing about? The 'Delts'?"

"Delta Tribe. They're very technologically advanced, but are also over-reliant upon it. They can't attack us directly because we use a device that disrupts the signals in their, uh, 'technology'."

The rat circled around the boy; she retrieved a very long leather scabbard resting against the wall.

"And this thing going on right now, it's all because of _me_?"

Fionnghal set the scabbard down on the table. She slid a battered, gunmetal sword hilt out, motioning to the boy. He examined the thing as she spoke.

"It's because of your _ship_. There are those who would want to salvage certain things from a vessel like yours. There are people who would want to know the things someone like you might know..."

Quinn pulled the blade out of the scabbard. It was a longsword, and an _absurdly_ long one at that. The boy struggled to hold half of it off the table with two hands.

"Things I might know? Like what?"

"Like where you come from. Why you're here..."

Fionnghal took the sword in one hand; she twisted the pommel and it made a series of strange clicks. Suddenly a small plume of blue fire spouted out along the blade's edge. She handed it to the boy, but he buckled under its weight. The rat smiled and pulled down on the pommel; a bright orb flared to life in the sword's guard: it was a QED. Instantly the sword's weight evaporated, as if it had been turned into an inflatable baby's toy. The boy looked up at the rat, face filled with awe, and he smiled as he brandished the now-weightless blade.

"Where I'm from? Why I'm here? I wish I knew any of that."

Quinn swished the blade through the air a few times, blinking.

"I wish I knew where my family was. Wish I knew if I _had_ one..."

The boy cocked his head; he held the fiery blue blade up in the air and then waved it about, writing five letters with its trailing light.

"...wish I knew for sure that 'Quinn' is even my real name..."

The rat reached into her shirt pocket and retrieved a shiny piece of jewelry: a gold ring, absent any specific adornments, capped with a small green stone.

"We kept everything we found in your cryo tube back in medical, kid. Except this..."

Quinn looked at the ring, brow furrowed. He slowly handed the weightless sword back to the rat and took the jewelry.

"We can tell that it's way too big for your fingers, but—"

The boy reached into his pocket and retrieved his silver chain. He quickly threaded the ring through it, fastened it, and then draped the thing around his neck, letting the ring dangle over his throat.

"Curious," Fionnghal muttered. "Brings back memories, I take it?"

The boy shook his head, examining the thing dangling around his neck.

"No. Just a feeling. What was it that little fox said? _Semantics_. It's just the semantics," he muttered. "Nothing episodic..."

He sat in a nearby chair, his back to the rodent. Fionnghal pushed the pommel of her sword's hit back, returning it to its previous weight and extinguishing the blue flame along its edge.

"So you still can't remember _anything_ else? Nothing about nothing, kiddo?"

The boy shook his head. "But I wonder who gave this to me," he whispered.

Fionnghal rested a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Someone who loved you, I'd assume."

Quinn kept his eyes on the ring.

"At least someone who _knew_ me. And who's probably gone now, right?"

"Maybe. But even if that's true, kid, I'm sure you'll see them again..."

Fionnghal rested the tip of her blade near the nape of Quinn's neck. Even as she performed this maneuver the boy leaned forward, shoulders quivering. She could hear him struggling to control himself.

"How can _that _be true?" He stared into his lap, his voice uneven.

"It is. And you know what, kid? You'll see them _soon_, I think..."

The rat narrowed her blue eyes.

Bony fingers tightened on the sword hilt. Fionnghal's mouth devolved into a snarl. Before her the child continued sobbing, oblivious.

"You'll see them very, _very_ soon..."

Only when she felt the salt of her own blood did she notice her teeth gnawing at her lip. Fionnghal willed them to stop.

But her teeth refused that order.

IV.

Concrete hands gripped the binoculars. Knuckles popped, echoing along the ridge as if a redwood had been snapped in half.

Narrow eyes leered into the darkness, sunk deep beneath mounds of armored flesh. The armadillo rose, granite knees cracking, and crossed his arms as he looked down at the _Filigree _complex. It was little more than a speck of light in the night from this distance.

The mechanical clicking of gossamer wings disturbed his meditation.

"Aerial reconnaissance is complete." The damselfly emerged from shadows behind him. She loomed over the armadillo, standing at least 8 feet tall, but with an impossibly thin abdomen. Her electric blue body glimmered brilliantly beneath the starry night sky. Naked she would be the epitome of a certain elegant female grace— like the most slender and delicate of water reeds— but at the moment she stood encased in complicated armor, her head shrouded in a pointed helmet. Wires and prongs dotted her armor from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes.

"Excellent," the armadillo answered. "Prepare your squadron for immediate deployment—"

"We will _not_," the damselfly's wings swished, menacing. "Their grid is in operation; we would _not _survive."

A warthog raced up the ridge, drawing close to the two figures.

The armadillo smiled. "Now that is exactly the problem with dames, sweetheart." He looked back at the damselfly. "You dames have no confidence in anyone else, do you? No sense of _faith_, isn't that right? I suppose that explains the hardware..."

He looked the damselfly up and down, eyes lingering on her wired armor. For her part the damselfly sneered at the man dangerously.

"Well, never mind that," he chuckled, turning his attention to the warthog.

"Tatu!" The warthog saluted the armadillo. "We've gotten word, just now!"

The armadillo smiled.

"Our operative?" Tatu asked.

"They were out of contact for some time, but now they're in a position to act; they should be ready to drop the grid on schedule."

"About time we heard from them!" The armadillo scoffed "Here I was afraid they'd been pinched." Tatu turned to the damselfly, his armored face deathly serious. "Get your girls' shiny rear ends up in the air, Bellesailes. _Filigree's _electromagnetic grid won't be a problem in a few minutes. You know your targets."

The damselfly cocked her head, scowling. She acknowledged Tatu with a curt nod.

"Acceptable," she said. "But you'll ensure that the Eggman's forces are aware of our accelerated timetable, correct?"

"But of course. I'll be making that call myself, sweetheart."

Her head tilted further, eyes suspicious.

"Not a word of a lie, Tatu?"

"Certainly not. No yolk at all, Bellesailes."

The damselfly scowled. She crouched, kneeling low on the ground, and then a mess of sparks flew from her powered armor. With a mighty push she leapt off the ridge, easily clearing both the armadillo and warthog's heads. Her wings roared to life, buzzing like a beehive, and then the damselfly was gone in the night.

The warthog waited several seconds after silence returned to the ridge.

"It's a mistake to keep the Eggman in the dark, Tatu..." he said.

The armadillo scowled.

"Respectfully," the warthog added.

"There're two things to know about the Eggman," Tatu answered. "For one, he's much more into the 'big picture' than he is the minutia. Little things don't tend to faze him." The armadillo returned the binoculars to his eyes.

"And two?" The warthog asked.

"He's an awfully forgiving soul, all things considered." Tatu removed the binoculars, glaring at the warthog. "Get the word to our ground forces: Operation _Silverheart_ is a go."

V.

Quinn's little sobbing fit didn't last long. The rat's firm hold on his shoulder seemed to help— a great deal, in fact— but he'd rather not admit it. The boy wriggled away from Fionnghal's touch, not daring to look back at her.

"By the way," he said. "I... I wanted to thank you. All of you."

"Hmm?"

"For saving me from the ship. Saving my _life_, I guess..."

That rat said nothing for upwards of a minute. Finally two things happened, nearly simultaneously. There was a heavy thud— the tip of Fionnghal's sword, still in hand, coming to rest on the carpet, and then two words quietly escaped her lips.

"You're welcome..."

The rat wandered over to the conference room window. Quinn followed her with his eyes.

"What's gonna happen to me, now? Are... are there _any _other humans in Mobius at all?"

The rat did not answer him.

"Fionnghal—"

"Don't call me that," she turned to face him. "I've got an ungodly ugly name, kid. 'Fi' is better, alright? As for other humans on Mobius... well... listen, kid... there's—"

All at once the world exploded in a blinding flare of pink light. Flames billowed all around the window before it exploded in a violent spray of glass. Quinn felt himself lifted from his chair, thrown across the length of the room by a heavy, burning wind. When he got to his knees he was choking on black smoke, struggling to see through the flames.

Fionnghal crawled along the floor, blood dripping from the back of her head. Her back was marred with glass wounds. The rat found her sword and stumbled to her feet, dizzy.

Alarms pealed throughout the complex. Within seconds a mess of cold water showered the room from overhead sprinklers. Both the rat and the boy stumbled to the window. Black shapes darted through in the night sky, accompanied by a droning buzz. Instantly Fionnghal slammed her fist into a button beside the shattered window, causing a steel plate to drop and seal the breach.

"What was that? What's going on?" Quinn stammered.

"Aerial bombardment; troop deployment." The rat then squeaked out a few words in her lowspeak. They sounded extremely angry, and more likely than not quite naughty.

A radio at her hip crackled.

"Fionnghal! M'quelo," the voice was scratchy and distorted. "The e-grid— it's _down_!"

"_What_? How?"

The voice didn't answer her directly; it seemed to be shouting at someone on its end of the line.

"Kakkari! _No_! Don't—"

Static exploded across the line. After that there was nothing. Fionnghal's face blanched under her scraggily fur. She looked down at the boy.

"You... you're _worthless_ now."

Quinn nearly leapt out of his jumpsuit as gunfire erupted in the corridor beyond the conference room. More screams and explosions rocked the complex.

The rat immediately shoved the conference table against the door. Quinn was about to help her, but she displayed an unexpected strength, easily moving the thing by herself. Afterwards she grabbed Quinn's hand, dragging him over to a bookshelf set against the wall. She kicked a certain row of books, causing the case to click and then swing inward, revealing a dingy little tunnel. Even a small boy like Quinn would have to kneel down to enter it.

He didn't get the chance: the rat pushed him to his knees and swiftly kicked him in the rear, forcing him into the nook.

"Get away from here if you can, kid. Just know that if the Delts catch you, they'll _kill_ you. Understand?"

Quinn nodded, looking up at the rat. Fionnghal withdrew the pommel from her sword's hilt, setting the blade alight with its ghostly blue fire.

"C— come with me!" The boy pleaded.

She shook her head.

"My people, kid. _My_ fight."

Quinn opened his mouth, but the rat cut him off.

"It's kind of a tribal thing..."

Instantly he got a boot to the face. The kick sent him reeling back into the tunnel; by the time Quinn recovered the case was shut tight. Seconds later an explosion rocked the room beyond. Gunfire and screams erupted freely.

Through it all there was that shrill, piercing yell: the rat letting loose a string of war cries in her lowspeak. But in less than a minute that lowspeak devolved into a horrible, pained squeal. It made Quinn feel that his ears might bleed. There was scuffling, and then more gunfire.

After that there was nothing but silence.

He wriggled through the darkness, heartbeat hammering away in his brain. Ever so often his tunnel passed by a thin wall; he could hear disorganized shouts, gunfire, orders being barked. At one point he heard a stern voice giving a command.

"Stop! Drop your weapons!"

Instantly Quinn's little tunnel exploded with light and shrapnel. Nearly two-dozen holes dotted the wall in an uneven burst. The scattershot missed his head by less than an inch. When a familiar voice sounded outside Quinn screwed up his courage and put one eye to one of the holes.

Asher the cottontail stood crouched beside a slumped body. The double-barrel sawn-off in his hand still smoked like the nostrils of a dragon.

"Ho, ho!" Brady stood beside the cottontail, his ungainly arms still raised in surrender. He lowered them and approached the corpse, tapping its shot-riddled body with one boot. "Damn fine shooting, Ash!"

The cottontail glared at the sloth.

"Uh, I mean, 'sir'."

"Rally whatever troops you can find on your way to engineering," Asher ordered. "I'll do the same on my way up to command—"

"_Command_? But that was their ingress point—"

"Fionnghal took the child up there; she'll need assistance—"

The sloth shook his head.

"Ten to one Fi is dead, Asher. We're dropping like flies on that deck."

The cottontail reloaded his weapon, shaking his head.

"Fionnghal's not exactly your garden-variety brown rat, Brady. She's got a few tricks up her sleeves."

"That'd be comforting if she weren't prone to wearing tank tops..."

They parted ways, leaving Quinn alone once again. With nowhere to go but forward he pushed onward, eventually coming to a gentle slope in the pitch-black tunnel.

That 'gentle slope' suddenly turned into an uncontrolled plunge.

He screamed as he fell, sliding down the uneven tunnel head over feet. Finally, after an eternity, the boy emerged on the side of a grassy hillock, propelled across the scrub until he came to rest on his rear. He stood, dizzy, and then collapsed to his knees, vomiting. That particular ride would have been difficult to endure even if he were at full-strength.

He looked behind him: the _Filigree _complex was alight with fire and smoke. Across from him in the distance some personnel manned the turrets he'd encountered earlier, but they were firing into a pick-black sky.

The earth beside him exploded with dust and rocks; Quinn fell down to his knees as a body rolled along the grass. It was a massive creature— 8 feet tall, at least— with a brilliant blue body and impossibly thin waist. The damselfly was encased in mesh netting, its head twisted unnaturally. The creature's neck was limp, cleanly snapped by its impact with the ground. As Quinn observed this horror another explosion shook the earth. The net-firing batteries were gone in a swirl of fire and smoke: blown to pieces.

The boy stumbled backwards, stepping slow and regularly, not knowing where he was going or what he was doing. Behind him the grassland yawned, open and empty. Quinn faced it, and then raced into it, moving as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him.

When he stopped it wasn't because he was out of breath.

The boy looked back at the complex; gunfire and explosions still rocked the structure. He balled his fists, eyes tortured. Just why exactly did he stop? What could he hope to do for any of them, even if he _wanted_ to do something? These guys couldn't hope to survive!

From the look of things they needed a miracle.

He scanned the sloping drop-off near the complex's side; the misty woods of the Thallomoor were barely visible. The boy's heartbeat made his legs quiver. His pounding chest stilled only when he took off running for that black canopy of trees.

It gave him peace only when he began racing for the black woods of the Thallomoor.

Because these guys _could_ possibly survive the attack, Quinn thought.

But, from the look of things, they needed a devil.


	4. Cockroach Shuffle

I.

The woods tonight were chilly enough to spout frost in the scrub beneath his feet. Quinn's blood rocketed through his veins like boiling water; he couldn't feel the cold. All he felt was panic.

Tree limbs thrashed his body as he raced through the woods, finally coming to the dusty moonscape at the heart of the Thallomoor. Wild hounds bayed in the distance, but it was a great distance. Nothing around him disturbed the silt ground; there was nothing to be seen at all.

"Sp— Speedster," Quinn's voice quivered. After a moment he balled his fists, teeth cemented on edge.

"Speedster!" His cry forced a flock of ravens out of a nearby tree.

"Banshee! Hey!" The boy paced the moonscape, arms waving. Nothing returned his gestures, and no noise penetrated the midnight gloom.

The boy muttered to himself, his breath burning white in the frigid air.

"You stupid, ugly-shoe-wearing, big-nosed—"

The force of contact hit him before the sound.

Instantly he was off his feet, swept up in some impossible whirlpool of light and noise. There was a hand at his throat, and another one under one armpit, relieving at least some of the pressure on his neck. Before he knew it he was stopped. The boy reeled as he took in his new surroundings; his heels teetered on the edge of a steep cliff. That white-gloved hand at his throat was the only thing keeping him on this side of mortality.

"_Juvenile_..."

The hedgehog sneered, leaning forward. That impossibly large emerald dangling around his neck sparkled with pink light, but soon faded into its natural, ruddy green.

"You know, I kinda _like_ my nose..."

Quinn struggled to find words; he quickly worked through his panic, forcing himself to speak.

"Your name's Sonic—"

"And yours isn't important. Nobody needs to remember the name of a _dead_ little boy—"

"_Quinn_," he said, forcefully. "Remember? But they call my _Qui'nloesh_, too."

A sneer wormed over Sonic's lips; having experienced that sneer once before Quinn was none too pleased to see it reemerge on the hedgehog's face.

"That's descriptive, to a point. But you've at least got hair on your head, haven't you?"

"That's what_ I_ said." Quinn blushed. "It's a long story—"

"Can you finish it on your way down this cliff?" The hedgehog loosened his grasp on the boy, threatening to release him.

"_Filigree_ needs your help! They're being attacked by Delta Tribe—"

The hedgehog scoffed.

"_Filigree_ runs an e-grid; Delts can't move through it. All that pathetic squabbling up there doesn't concern me—"

"But their grid thingy is down! There was some kind of problem with it, and Delta Tribe's invaded! There're explosions, and gunfire, and _everything_—"

"How very exciting. Listen, kid: one thing those _Filigree_ bastards know how to do well is _survive_. You could call it their 'specialty'. They'll work it out for themselves."

"But it's bad up there! _Really_ bad. Some of them are still fighting— Asher, the cottontail, and the sloth— but I don't know about the rest of them. Like, Fionnghal, the brown rat—"

One of the hedgehog's ears twitched ever so microscopically. Quinn felt himself being pulled back from the crevasse, again, microscopically.

"What _about_ her? And for that matter: how the hell did you get out?"

"She let me go. She _hid _me, back when the fighting started. I heard her resisting them, but after that, well, I don't know. There was screaming, and I don't know if she's alive, or..."

Sonic roughly dumped Quinn at the edge of the cliff; he crossed his arms, scowling.

"So, why do _you_ care if they make it out or not?"

The boy shook his head.

"They helped me. They _saved_ me, and now I want to help them—"

"Noble sentiment, kid." Sonic shrugged. "_Equitable_, at least. But you've gone and violated these woods twice now, boy-o mine. Laws are laws, and before I lift a finger to do anything else I gotta deal with _you_. Your crimes are cause for a _serious_ thrashing, the kind that'll keep you from walking straight for a _week_."

The hedgehog balled his fist, sneering.

Quinn's eyes quivered. Suddenly, and against all his better judgment, the boy leapt up, facing the hedgehog directly.

"You know what? That's _fine_! Thrash me, then! Do whatever you want to me, alright? Just _help them_, will you? Just get this over with and _help_ _them_!"

Instantly the hedgehog pulled back his fist; Quinn grimaced, his voice squeaking. He turned his head and shut his eyes, waiting for the punch. The seconds passed like hours, but it was the hedgehog's voice that cut into him next, not his fist.

"_Qui'nloesh_, huh? I'd have thought _Qui'ntroshe_ would be more descriptive..."

Quinn opened his eyes; the hedgehog stood before him, arms crossed.

"_Qui'n_… troshe?"

"Well, I don't have time to mess you up right now, kid. But I do owe you a good thrashing, so don't you move an _inch_ until I get back here. You understand?"

Quinn was ready to nod his head, but he didn't get a chance. A vortex of wind and heat flared up all around him, and with it the screeching wail of a tortured animal. When the swirling dust cleared he was alone, listening as the Banshee faded in the night, streaking towards the boundaries of the Thallomoor.

The boy crossed his arms, feeling the cold of the woods for the first time. He stamped his feet for warmth; he thought about Fionnghal. Wasshe still alive? Was that even _possible_, considering? What about Myrtle: that poor sugar glider he'd assaulted? At least Fionnghal had the looks of a warrior; Quinn could tell that much about her. Heck, she owned her own _sword_, for God's sake. Anybody that goes around carrying a sword when everyone else is walking around with guns _has_ to be a butt-kicking force to be reckoned with, right? But Myrtle? No. Not so much. Not even close, in fact.

She was defenseless.

A good many of those other critters inside the compound were probably defenseless, too.

But, wait a minute! What else could hepossibly do about any of this? Nothing, of course!

"_You're_ defenseless too, you little idiot..."

At least he _thought_ he was. If he'd had any self-defense training in his twelve-year lifespan ('outside estimate', ha ha) he certainly didn't feel like it. He didn't know _how _to react to any of this crisis.

All he knew is that he _wanted _to react.

"You feel guilty," he observed. "Well, that's tough potatoes, guy; you can't expect to be any help, can you?"

But he could try, couldn't he?

Rabid baying in the distance suddenly made up his mind. Quinn didn't know just how far away those wild hounds were, but he felt they were drawing closer. He remembered Fionnghal's warning: she told him that 'Delta Tribe' would kill him if they ever found him.

At least _they_ didn't have his scent, right?

"Oh, this is _really_ stupid," he muttered.

Notwithstanding that assessment he soon found himself racing across the moonscape, heading back towards the _Filigree _complex, into the jaws of death.

Well, that was only ifthey could catch him, he thought.

Then another thought popped into his head.

"I wonder... do I even _like _potatoes?"

II.

Her teeth rattled. The blow shook her back into consciousness, shuttling through her brain like a roaring freight train. She lay pinned on the metal floor, two sets of armored knees digging into her back. The room was dark— black with curling smoke— and it reeked of spent gunpowder and sweat. Her wrists bled as she twisted her furry paws in the cuffs.

"Careful, careful, dirty rat. You might just twist your arms off, like that. Struggling so, I mean..."

The guards on top of her were warthogs— burly and laden with stink. But the voice beside her was delicate— hypnotic, gentle— and the body was a slender study in grace.

The damselfly knelt beside her. She brushed a needle against her face, cutting into her cheek. She squealed, unleashing a volley of curses in rat lowspeak. The damselfly smiled at this, even as she collected blood on the needle and set it into a small plug on her datapad.

"You must have a lovely singing voice. Tell me, have you ever been privy to _damselfly_ lowspeak, dirty rat?"

The guards pinning her down exchanged nervous glances. Their trepidation was unwarranted; the threat was enough to still Fionnghal's tongue.

The conference room door squeaked open, moving unevenly. She looked up and was barely able to see a pair of tough, sturdy legs lumber into the room, girded in their own natural armor. The armadillo skidded; he nearly fell on the slippery floor.

"Gods of our fathers! _Report, _Bellesailes!"

The damselfly stood.

"Three of your soldiers fell here, Tatu. They did not go... 'cleanly'..."

She held up a long sword sheathed in its scabbard.

"They fell to _this_."

The armadillo looked down at the prostrate rat before him as the dragonfly continued:

"Little of the blood on this prisoner belongs _to_ her; she is relatively undamaged. _Relatively_."

Tatu took the sword from the damselfly. He looked it over, sunken eyes surveying the tight leather scabbard.

"Well, this is certainly _Curtainrod_, isn't it?" He nodded. "Then that makes her, most certainly—"

"Fionnghal De'sulum," the damselfly held up her datapad, nodding. She leaned over, gripping the rat's hair at the top of her head and pulling it up, forcing Fionnghal's face into view. The rat's brilliant blue eyes glowed with anger.

The damselfly shrugged.

"Her DNA is a match. But, as you can see, the coat color, and the eyes..." the damselfly again shrugged.

Tatu knelt down, shaking his burly head. He clucked his tongue.

"Oh, Fi. _Fi_. Whatever have you done to yourself?"

The rat cocked her head, as if debating Tatu's words. Instead of a pithy response to his question, however, she replied by spitting a wad of blood into his face. Her warthog handlers pushed her down, one of them raising his fists to strike the back of her head, but Tatu stopped him. He ordered Fionnghal brought to a chair and sat up. He ran a finger over her shoulder as he paced around her body.

"Well, you can always take those things out of your eyes, I suppose. And you can always wash that filth off your body, am I right? Cosmetics are one thing. But, still: there are _some_ things you just can't wash off, huh, Fi?"

"This attack is unprovoked, Tatu—"

"We both know that's not true, my dear. One of ours from the _Runner_ raid is dead—"

"_Disproportionate_!"

The armadillo shrugged.

"Again, no. Not considering the cargo. You had your chance to be peaceable about this, Fi. We've gone beyond the rules of war on this one. Speaking of which: where _is_ the cargo?"

Fionnghal turned her head, looking away. Tatu gripped her face.

"_What_ cargo?" She sneered.

"I hate to bring up the obvious, Fi, but you're well-aware that I know how to hurt you..."

He leaned closer to the rat, whispering:

"And, all predilections aside, I can figure out ways to hurt you that you would _not_ find pleasant..."

She struggled away from his grip, snarling.

"Where's the human, Fi?"

"Slit his throat. Dumped him outside, with the _garbage_—"

"I wouldn't put it past you, my dear, but I don't think so."

Tatu turned to the damselfly, motioning to the air outside the window.

"Bellesailes, make sure your girls are coordinating with our ground forces." He motioned to Fionnghal. "We're halfway to our goal, now, and I don't want to lose the other half of our objective. Is that understood?"

The damselfly nodded.

"The other one will be found. And the Elites will see to the rest of this rabble, here," she said.

Tatu's face scrunched. "Wait, _what_? What did you just say?"

Bellesailes crossed her arms, shrugging.

"The Delta Elites. I took the liberty of inviting Eggman's forces. I was uncertain when you might get around to that, Tatu."

The armadillo gaped at her.

"_Insubordination_!"

"No. Not considering the cargo, anyway." Bellesailesshook her head. "You're much like the dirty rat now, aren't you? You had a chance to inform the Eggman yourself, Tatu. You know that..."

Dead silence filled the room. Fionghall snickered. Both Tatu and Bellesaileslooked over at the rat.

"Poor, poor Tatu! I don't even have to ask what you've done to _yourself_, do I? You're pathetic! You're a collared dog, just like the Elites, and you still think that you don't have a leash on you!"

"_Quiet_, Fi!"

One of the warthogs beside Tatu pulled a pistol from his belt, speaking in a gravelly voice.

"This makes a world of difference, Tatu. Without the human we've got nothing for the Eggman! We must find him! As for this one, now she absolutely _must _talk..."

The warthog pointed his gun at Fionghall, and then lowered it to one of her kneecaps.

"No!" Tatu grabbed the warthog's arm just as Fionghall managed to squirm out of the other hog's grasp. She leapt from her chair just as the gun went off. A spray of blood erupted from her shoulder, blinding the warthog behind her.

She hit the ground, shrieking in lowspeak. Instantly the damselfly was on her, holding her down with her powered armor sparking and crackling.

And after that everything was light and heat.

She felt the wind knocked out of her lungs as the cyclone flew past; all her body tingled, and then screamed in agony. One minute Bellesailes sat on top of her, hateful eyes intent, and the next her face sunk into abject horror: the damselfly's wings, stretching meters behind her like great gossamer curtains, disappeared in that blinding flash, and when that flash was gone her wings did not reappear.

The blur hit the gun-toting warthog next, sending him sailing into and through a far wall, crashing through a window beyond, and then tumbling out of it, screaming.

For a brief instant— no more than the blink of an eye— a body came to rest out of that blur: blue, spike-headed and red-shoed, gaudy emerald dangling from a chain on his neck and two glowing braces accentuating his legs— sparking white orbs dotting his hips, knees and ankles. Sonic looked back at Fionghall, meeting her eyes for an instant, and then he was out that busted window, chasing after the falling warthog.

Bellesailes dropped to her knees, mouth still agape, and let loose a piercing scream.

Instantly Tatu and the warthog fell to their knees, hands plastered to their ears. Fionghall shrieked as her eardrums throbbed. She couldn't cover them, and felt her head would explode as the damselfly unleashed a torrent of lowspeak.

Bellesailes stumbled to the outside window, arms flailing madly behind her, still blindly searching for her amputated wings. Dazed, she leapt out the window, falling into the night. With a dramatic swoop there was a shadow at her side: a compatriot grabbed her up and swept her out into the darkness, struggling on overtaxed wings to bear her off to safety.

Fionghall took the opportunity to leap to her feet, wobbling unsteadily with her bound wrists behind her. She kicked the warthog beneath her square in the jaw, knocking him to the floor—and completely senseless, to boot— and then she confronted Tatu. The armadillo stepped back even as the bound rat stepped forward. When he pulled a small combat knife from his vest Fionghall cocked her head.

"You wanna put me to the test, Tatu? You're right, you know: some things a rat simply _can't_ wash off..."

She spread her legs and squared her shoulders, bracing her body in an imposing combat stance.

Well, it might have been 'imposing' if not for her bound wrists. Those didn't seem to matter one bit to the armadillo, though. Tatu sneered at Fionnghal, twisting the knife blade menacingly. But when she took another aggressive step forward— iron boot clomping on the blood-caked metal floor— the armadillo stepped back through the doorway. With a parting scowl he disappeared down the corridor, closing the door behind him.

The rat returned his dirty scowl. She turned, eyeing the hole in the conference room wall and the busted window beyond.

"Sonic..."

The warthog beneath her groaned distantly. Fionnghal looked down at him, head cocked.

"_He_ won't take a bit of pleasure from any of this, I'm sure..."

She kicked the warthog square in the head— knocking him out cold— and then she raised her own head up, blue eyes triumphal.

"Oh, _God_ that felt good!"

III.

Asher rounded the corner, jumping backward as a mess of sparks exploded along the bulkhead beside him. Bullets ricocheted all around him as he returned fire with both gun barrels. Screams permeated the smoking corridor and a body landed hard on the metal floor, writhing. After that the cottontail charged into the corridor.

As soon as he was out of cover a second volley of bullets struck his chest, dead center. Asher collapsed like a ton of bricks, landing squarely on his back.

A pig emerged from the shadows of the corridor. Half of its jaw gleamed in the harsh white emergency lights: his face was a patchwork of metal teeth, rusty hinges and cruel-looking wire. The pig surveyed Asher's unmoving body, scowling.

"Unit Four here," he spoke into a radio. "Unable to secure live-capture of the objective—"

"No worries. Live-capture's overrated, anyway..."

The pig had only one brief instant to look up. Whether he ever saw those terrible metal claws looming above him is debatable.

Honestly, Asher never tried to put too much thought into answering that question.

Brady helped the cottontail to his feet after he managed to 'unstick' his claws from the unfortunate pig.

"Still alive, huh? Talk about 'lapine luck', Ash!" The sloth grinned.

The cottontail grunted, rubbing his chest with a resentful scowl.

"There's nothing 'lucky' about taking a bullet to the vest."

"You okay?"

The cottontail again rubbed his torso, wincing.

"Busted rib, probably. Help me tighten this damn thing; at least keep it from wiggling around in there..."

"That's what s—"

"_Don't_, Brady..."

A hollow click froze both the sloth and cottontail in their tracks. Boots tromped through the dark corridor, and eventually a steel-eyed possum appeared under the emergency floods, her firearm gleaming in the light.

"Poor cottontail! Got a boo-boo! Well, you just put yourself face-down on the ground, Mister Asher— _sir_— and we'll get you all the medical treatment you need..."

Brady crossed his massive paws, prompting a suspicious glare from the possum's artificial eyes.

"Mighty kind of you. I guess that means we'll have to apologize, then..."

The possum pointed her weapon at Brady, sneering.

"Apologize for _what_, sloth?"

A distorted growl sounded at the nape of the possum's neck. When she tried to spin around her gun-bearing hand was met with a strong, black-gloved arm. Another arm wrapped around her throat.

And how beautiful it was: a slender, tan appendage— slippery— with magnificent blue rings set in a regular pattern.

The possum shrieked. She dropped her weapon, hands grasping for her throat as the octopus' naked arm moved over her; red welts blossomed under the possum's matted fur. Her metallic eyes bulged; she sputtered, and then started choking. After a few seconds she fell to her knees, lungs heaving in pained convulsions.

"We're sorry," Brady said, "because there's no medical treatment around that's gonna save _you_, dear one_..._"

The possum managed to look behind her; M'quelo was there, imposing in his massive black suit, one glove discarded on the floor, one of his eight arms wriggling out the suit's wrist. Terror in the possum's eyes devolved into something else: puzzlement, and a greatly confused scowl. She looked like she was trying to speak.

And then, sputtering madly and frothing at the mouth, she collapsed to one side. All signs of life soon faded from her artificial eyes.

"Poor little thing. Pity, that," Brady noted.

M'quelo retrieved his suit glove.

"No more so than your 'poor' little pig's skull over there, Brapes."

Asher tugged the straps on his vest, cinching it tight over his wounded torso.

"Unavoidable. _Both_," he said.

"Well, _eminently_ avoidable," M'quelo disagreed, "but for Fionnghal's equivocation..."

"This isn't exactly the time and place to dig into command decisions, M'quelo. Besides, I could just as easily ask why _you_ didn't go to medical to help sort-out that matter with the little human—"

"I was ensuring the stability of the e-grid—"

"Given that it's offline right now your work seems less than satisfactory, doesn't it?"

Brady busily cleaned his claw extenders; he shook his head as he worked.

"Come on, mom and dad. It's not nice to fight in front of the kids..."

The octopus and the cottontail turned to face Brady, who looked up only when he felt a heavy pause in the air.

"_Respectfully_," he muttered.

Asher looked to one side, scratching at his gnarled horns.

"You're right, of course..."

"And you're _ever_ so wise to think so, sir." The sloth winked.

Asher looked back at M'quelo.

"So what happened to the e-grid? How did it come down?"

M'quelo crossed his suit's arms; a gruff snort escaped the speakers.

"It was Kakkari Nez," he answered. "He betrayed us—"

"_What_?" Brady's head shot up. "_Kakk_? Our friggin' chief of security? _Couldn't_ be!"

Asher, too, looked surprised.

"Kakkari?But we had him locked up after that stunt he pulled down in medical—"

"I let him out. I needed his help to repair the conduits. That's when he attacked me: temporarily disabled my suit, blew the fuses on the grid and then escaped down a garbage chute. Seems he was waiting for the opportunity. So our current defenselessness happens to be _my _fault—"

Asher shook his head.

"Kakkari's actions were entirely unforeseeable, M'quelo—"

"You're telling _me_!" Brady immediately regretted his outburst; he slunk behind the octopus and the cottontail as the trio moved down the corridor.

"What about Fi?" Asher asked.

"Dead, or captured," M'quelo answered. "Given the brutality of Delta Tribe's attack, it doesn't bode well for her."

Brady scoffed.

"Doesn't bode well for _any _of us, at the moment. Oh, and engineering's a damn bloodbath, by the way; I think we've lost about all our best and brightest down there."

"Our priority right now should be to evacuate the civilians," M'quelo said. "So long as we don't encounter any complications—"

A scream from above caused the trio to raise their heads. They were walking beneath a loading tunnel: a five-story silo riddled with platforms and dangling chains. The ceiling above their heads was tough rebar and mesh, allowing a partial view of the massive silo.

All at once a body plummeted through that tunnel, tossed out a glass window far above. The animal screamed as he fell, and not far behind him was a curious blur of light. The blur reached a dangling chain, shooting down it at tremendous speed, and intersected the falling body. Both the body and the blur then bounced from chain to chain to chain until they crashed into the mesh floor, hitting it at a slightly less-than-lethal speed.

_Slightly_.

A warthog landed on that mesh flooring directly above them, writhing beneath the radiant blue body of a scowling hedgehog. Sonic gripped the struggling hog's head with two hands, knocking it against the metal rebar. The warthog groaned dreamily; all its struggles ceased.

The hedgehog's eyes darted beneath him, staring down at the trio below. Sonic's piercing black eyes narrowed into vicious slits. He gave a wordless, microscopic nod to the group.

Asher returned this nod, but then instantly the hedgehog was gone in a tempestuous blur, screaming down an adjacent corridor.

"Oh, good," M'quelo sighed. "A 'complication'."

IV.

By the time Quinn reached the narrow entryway to the complex all the fires along the net batteries were out. A haze of smoke permeated the air and everything was dark; the tunnel into the complex had all the warmth of a tomb.

The boy crept through a series of pitch-black corridors, mindful of every distant echo that met his ears. At once junction, directly beneath an emergency flood, someone had taken a blade to the concrete wall, scrawling inelegant scribbles into its surface. Quinn's head swam as he surveyed the gibberish, but then all the lines and dots fell into order:

"Feet slip,

Disaster nears,

Doom rushes:

_EGGMAN_ cometh."

Quinn cocked his head.

"Kaaaaay," he muttered.

Noises further down the corridor brought him back to attention: they were sobs. They were muted sounds— sniveling— and there was more than one sobber.

He moved near a busted section of the corridor. The walls here were rent open, probably from some type of explosive, and as he struggled through the debris he came to a narrow section between the walls. The passage wouldn't accommodate a body— even one as slender as his— but he could barely see the room opposite through tears in the metal.

About fifteen juvenile animals sat on the ground, huddled together in a protective semi-circle. Their species varied, and among them were a group of five beavers— obviously siblings. Myrtle the sugar glider stood in front of them, hands on her head, with weapons trained on her by two mean-looking warthogs in battle fatigues.

One of them snorted through its nose, sending a plume of watery air into the dank room. Its breath oscillated unnaturally as it billowed from its snout. It sounded almost like a mechanical respirator.

"Last chance, dearie! Where is your secondary command station? Where would your commanders go in the event of a breech?"

"I told you I don't _know_!"

"Asher—"

"Isn't _here_!" Myrtle motioned to the juvenile animals behind her. "Not unless he shrunk himself to one-quarter size. These are _juveniles_!"

The hog pressed his gun barrel against Myrtle's nose.

"That they are. You should really think of their wellbeing..."

Myrtle stepped backward, hands spread to either side. Her knees trembled.

"You wouldn't—"

The hog snorted again.

"What? No! A monstrous thought! I wouldn't dream of _physically_ harming a juvenile, dearie..." The hog again raised his gun, pointing it between Myrtle's eyes. "But wouldn't it scar them, you think, for them to see us blow your bushy little head clean off its shoulders?"

The sugar glider swallowed hard. Those trembling knees nearly conspired to topple her over.

Quinn scowled from his dark recess. The boy searched around the debris-littered floor: all he could find was one twisted piece of burnt metal, bent vaguely into a 'y' shape, and of course all around the floor were tiny chunks of concrete, loosed from the busted walls.

Suddenly Quinn looked up, his eyes very bright and very wide.

Seconds later he had one foot hole in his jumpsuit leg cut open; he forced the elastic ankle band out of the garment and wrapped it around the twisted piece of metal. He retrieved a chunk of concrete, and then aimed his makeshift slingshot through a narrow gap in the mesh.

"This is _still_ really stupid," he muttered.

The warthog shrieked when the concrete struck him. It was more a squeal, really. Kinda like a little girl, in fact. It would have been hilarious under other circumstances.

But under _these_ circumstances?

Not so much.

Quinn screamed as bullets ripped through the cluttered debris; he curled up tight on the floor in a ball, teeth gnashed together as bright ricochets flared throughout the corridor. It seemed like the gunfire lasted for ages; it might have only been a couple of seconds. Silence dominated as the smoke cleared. Finally one of the hogs called out to him.

"Hello? Anybody still alive out there? If so: how many holes do you have in you, at present?"

Quinn's lips trembled. The boy balled his fists, still curled tight in his ball.

"J—just the factory-installed ones. _Asshole_!"

The hog laughed, snorting through its respirator.

"What a cheeky lad! You don't sound old enough to be using such language, sonny. But you must have some 'lapine luck' inside you to live through that salvo. Are you a cottontail? You _must_ be, sonny. Either that or a rat, perhaps."

"Qu—_Quinn_? You need to _run_—"

The boy heard Myrtle shriek; her voice trembled unsteadily as the warthog again screamed out to the boy.

"You still there, sonny? We've got a little game we're going to play with you. It's called 'come out and show yourself'. Game's only thirty seconds long, mind you, and it ends either with you showing yourself, or with us splattering this sugar glider's brains all over your little friends' faces, here..."

Quinn cocked his brow.

"I reallydidn't think _any_ of this through, did I?" He whispered.

"Come on, sonny! You're not gonna let her die, are you? Now, I thought you to be a little cottontail, but maybe you _are_ a rat, hmm? Who else could be so cold-blooded! And this is pretty low even for a _rat_, isn't it? Maybe you're just slow on the uptake? A _sloth_, perhaps?"

The hog cocked his gun; the sound echoed with all the warmth of a nail struck into a coffin.

"Maybe you're just a cowardly little toad, although you'd have been a much easier target to hit—"

Quinn leapt to his feet, approaching the mesh grating between chambers.

"Try _human_, pal!"

The hog's metal facemask sputtered, like a washing machine ending its cycle too abruptly. It looked to its companion; both warthogs looked at each other with wide eyes before again looking back to the boy, dumbstruck.

"Let the sugar glider and the others go!" Quinn barked.

One of the hogs cocked its head.

"Because?"

"If you don't," Quinn scowled, "then I'll take you both down. You got it?"

The hogs again looked at each other, but this time with profound puzzlement.

"How's that, exactly?" One of them asked.

Quinn extended his hands to either side, flexing and relaxing his digits.

"Really? Come on! I'm a _human_, remember?"

"Yeeees?"

"Well, you don'twanna mess with me! I'm a certified killing machine—"

The hog scowled.

"You are a small boy. You're unarmed. And it looks like you wet yourself a bit when we shot at you..."

Quinn took a step back, bushing and scowling.

"But... I have special human _powers_—"

"No, you _don't_. In fact, your species doesn't have any armor plating at all. Not even a fur coat."

The other hog grinned.

"You're super _underpowered_, sonny.You're especially weak and 'squishy'..."

The boy's face fell.

"Uh, you're supposed to be _afraid_ of me, aren't you? I kinda thought that would work..."

One of the warthogs produced two pairs of cuffs; he tossed them through the gap in the wall, where they landed at Quinn's feet. He motioned to the restraints.

"Slap one set on your ankles, boy, and another on your wrists. Then you _wait_ for us to come over to you. Unless, of course, you wanna see your friend here lose her head..."

Quinn picked up the cuffs, scowling.

"This _was _really stupid," he mumbled.

He sat down and prepared to restrain his ankles. Before he got the chance, however, a sudden rattling shook the corridors beyond the floodlights. This was accompanied by voices— a multitude of shouting individuals— and the heavy tromping of feet on metal: it was an entire army, and they sounded like they were on the move.

The warthogs abruptly turned, staring down that dark corridor with weapons drawn. As the noises intensified they exchanged nervous glances. The sound rose in intensity, and as the terrifying squall came to ear-splitting levels the hogs looked to an ancillary corridor, ready to make their escape.

They prepared to retreat, but before doing so one of them glared at Quinn, who appeared just as baffled by the approaching maelstrom as they were. The hog pointed his weapon at Myrtle again, motioning with his head for the boy to finish applying his cuffs. But Quinn felt paralyzed; whether by fear or from simple exhaustion he couldn't say.

When the hog realized Quinn wasn't going to follow orders he scowled, glancing at Myrtle. He pressed his firearm directly against the sugar glider's forehead.

Myrtle's giant black eyes quivered like delicate pools of oil. She trembled. Behind her the juveniles whimpered and shielded their eyes.

The hog tightened his grip on the trigger. He glared at Quinn one last time.

Quinn could only look back, face pale with horror.

The finger on the trigger tightened; the gun's hammer gleamed like a dagger.

The warthog drew a long, deep breath.

"To hell with it," he growled.

He removed his weapon from Myrtle's head. The warthogs darted off for the darkness of the corridors, biding a hasty retreat from that approaching wall of sound.

As soon as their captors were gone the juveniles got to their feet, moving away from the ominous noises. Myrtle stood her ground, but not out of any sense of bravery. She appeared to have all the mental faculties of a poorly watered houseplant, at present.

Not that she'd need them: what appeared out that corridor was not at all what anyone could have expected. The din subsided, and the echoes ceased. Only one set of heavy footfalls could then be heard. When a figure emerged from the darkness Myrtle's empty eyes blossomed with light.

"Th— _Thadesch_!" She grinned, clasping her hands in front of her chest.

The toad smiled.

"Never a need to fear, my dear!"

Quinn, still perched on his rear, saw the toad enter. He got to his knees, ready to stand up.

And then the wind was sent hurtling from his lungs.

He was pinned facedown against the dirty floor; the tough fabric of a glove wedged between his teeth and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his head. Before he could react he felt himself being dragged back into the shadows. He tried struggling, but then a deep, menacing voice whispered into his ear:

"Do not make me kill you, little human..."

All things considered, Quinn decided that he would not.

As he lay helpless, the sugar glider and the toad continued speaking, oblivious to his plight.

"How did you _do _all that?" Myrtle asked.

"Oh, acoustics are a small hobby of mine, you know. Used to consult with the renovators who worked on the Opera House back in _Sulumac__'__dun_. Prefer ballet, myself. But it's amazing the stuff you can pick up, when confronted with necessity."

"We have to get the juveniles out of here, Thadesch!"

The toad nodded.

"Well, the direct route topside is crawling with Delts—"

"We can take 'em!" One of the young beavers leapt to his feet, pumping his fist with a sneer.

"Aw, that's just _adorable_." The toad looked up at Myrtle. "But seriously: if you don't want any of these juvies getting their cute little heads blown off you need an alternate route out. Head for medical. The emergency chute there is your best option."

Myrtle rounded up her charges, but then her ears suddenly pricked up.

"Oh, yes: and _Quinn_!"

The boy tried to raise his head— reflexively— at the sound of his name. His assailant didn't take kindly to that, burying the boy's face against the ground and jamming its glove even further into his mouth.

"Quinn?" Myrtle looked to the fissure in the wall. "_Quinn_? Well, he was just there, Thadesch!"

"Right. I'll keep my eye out for him. But you and the juveniles better hop to it; sorry to say, but the place is entirely indefensible at this point."

Quinn's attacker waited until the room beyond was emptied. The boy was roughly dragged to his feet, after which he came face-to-face with a monstrous sight: a scarred metal façade, vaguely suggestive of the creature beneath it, if there even _was _a living creature beneath that pale death-mask. A long, cruel muzzle bore a fearsome fake gum-line, brandishing terrible artificial teeth. The thing's eyes— demonic slits— bled a dark fire deep within.

The creature inside that hideous metal wolf mask growled at the boy, brandishing its firearm.

"You have two option, child," it sneered. "You can walk out of here with me— _conscious_— or be carried. For the record, you'd be surprised just how many blows to the head it takes to render—"

Hinges squeaked above the pair. Both Quinn and the metal wolf looked up at the same time.

But the wolf probably never saw the massive iron grate that landed on its head. Ironically, he was down for the count.

The boy was thrown back in a cloud of rust dust and concrete. When he sat up, coughing into the haze, he saw a figure facing him, also sitting on her rear, posed inelegantly atop the metal grate.

"Right, right: hypothesis rebutted, I think..." she scratched at one of her feline ears. "Yeah: that grate will _not _support an adult cheetah's weight. Noted, duly." The cheetah wobbled to her feet, dusting off her coveralls.

"A— are you with _Filigree_?" Quinn asked.

"'Course I am! I'm Spindletop! Grease monkey extraordinaire! Uh, but a _cheetah_, you know. There's not much that's 'simian' about me." She faced Quinn. "Why, I'm—" She stopped abruptly.

"Oh! Oh, you're the _human_, aren't you? You're little 'Furless', right?"

The boy gritted his teeth.

"Uh, it's Quinn."

"Oh, 'Quinn'? Yeah! Sure. That's no problem for me! Well, I'm totally _pro_-simian, you know! Well, and by that I don't mean I'm _prosimian_. I'm actually a feline, you know—"

The baying of wolves exploded down the corridor. Shadows danced along the wall: a legion of hideous wolf-monsters tromping down to meet them. Quinn tensed, stepping backward hesitantly.

Spindletop, in contrast, went into a full-on freak-out; the cheetah leapt into the air in a comical display of cowardice. A small wrench in her hand went flying wildly through the air. It nearly beaned Quinn in the head, but missed the boy, striking a pipe against the wall instead.

That pipe burst at the point of impact; a chain reaction sent a cloud of ridiculously hot steam pouring down the corridor. The chaotic vortex clouded the boy's vision. The last thing he heard as he stumbled backward, plunging deeper into the _Filigree _complex, was the prolonged screaming of the wolves as they met the geyser.

That and Spindletop. The cheetah was coughing on the steam cloud, but she managed to get out one audible phrase:

"Huh... Well, I _meant_ to get all the repairs done, down here..."

V.

He hit the ground like a ton of bricks. It was a miracle his jaw wasn't broken.

And, even then, only _just_.

Asher sighed as he stared up at the floodlights above him.

M'quelo caught the assailant rounding the corner, ready with another powerful roundhouse kick. Instead of contacting flesh, however, the assailant's foot only found M'quelo's suit gloves; he caught the belligerent in a rough embrace, holding her tight.

It was tough work, even though this particular assailant had her wrists cuffed behind her.

"_Control yourself_, Fionnghal," the octopus said.

The rat suddenly stopped thrashing in his arms, looking at both Brady and the prostrate Asher.

"Oh," she whispered.

"_Yeah_. '_Oh'_," Asher growled.

"So much for the old 'lapine luck', huh?" Brady helped the cottontail to his feet.

"No," Asher said. "That _was _lucky. She didn't manage to break my jaw..."

"Just get me out of these, alright!" Fionnghal struggled angrily until M'quelo obliged; he gripped each cuff with his suit arms and pulled, ripping the metal apart in short order.

"That's one of several reasons I'll never spar with you, Fi," Asher rubbed his chin.

"_Tatu_ certainly didn't feel like it."

The cottontail's lips perched.

"Tatu? He's the one behind all this, huh? So, no hardcore Delts, then?"

The rat shook her head.

"Well, the Eggman's toady little Dame made sure to call in the Elites. They should be swarming our lower decks by now." She met Asher's eyes. "Also: Sonic—"

"Yeah, I know. We saw him down in the lower decks. He wasn't being 'conversational', though..."

Fionnghal retrieved her sword from the ground, removing it from the scabbard.

"We can still meet the Delts down near the main entrance, if we hurry." She pulled out the sword's pommel, bringing a cruel blue flame to the blade. "That's where we should make our stand—"

"Negative," M'quelo shook his suit helmet. "The civilians are our top priority at the moment."

The rat glared at him, baring oversized teeth.

"_Command cohesion_ is our top priority, along with organizing our _counterattack_—"

"There can't be a counterattack, Fi." Asher shook his head. "There's nothing for it..."

"What are you talking about? _Filigree_—"

"Is _lost_. We can't hold off the Delts, not with our e-grid down. Our only hope is to—"

"Run? Shuffle off like cockroaches scurrying away from the light? That'd be the _coward's_ way out. To hell with that, Ash!"

"It's the _sensible _way out, Fionnghal. You've also been shot, if you didn't notice..."

"Flesh wound," the rat growled, cinching her sleeve tight around her shoulder. "And I plan on doing much _worse_ to these bastards—"

M'quelo gripped the rat's uninjured shoulder, turning her to face him; he exposed his face through the glass of his suit.

"We have no ability to hold our ground, Fionnghal. All we _do _have, at the moment, is the ability to save lives. _Filigree _is the _people_, not the _place_. Please, my dear, remember that our decisions have consequences! I'd have hoped you of all people would have learned that, by now."

Fionnghal scowled, turning her head.

"I urge you: suppress the assassin within you, my dear..." the octopus said.

"Thought you said I should be _comfortable _in my own skin..."

Brady stared down a corridor, awkwardly scratching at his temple.

"Look I'll, uh, I'll be down this way. It's more proper. Just while you all 'debate' things, alright?"

"Forget it, Brady," Fionnghal shook her head. "There's no debate, here." She looked at Asher, nodding with a sullen frown. "Our best bet is to coordinate civvy evac from the midlevel decks. And, if he's even still around, Sonic is probably—"

"Causing untold chaos throughout the base," M'quelo growled.

"—heading over to take on the incoming Elites."

"Tired of living, is he?" Brady smirked.

"Oh, Sonic likes a challenge," the rat shrugged. "But he'll settle for the Eggman's pride and joy."

"Ouch," the sloth guffawed.

They headed down to the lower decks, avoiding any run-ins with the Delts until they reached the civilian area. The evacuation was chaos, and it took a concerted effort to cobble together anything approaching organization. Even as they got the situation under control they were met with another important issue. M'quelo got internal communications up and running.

"Thadesch just called in from topside," He said. "Myrtle and a group of juveniles are trapped on the upper floors. They're heading for medical, now." The suit raised its head. "And you'll never believe who helped her out along the way..."

"Not a fan of guessing games," Asher sighed.

"Think white, and tiny..."

"Ash's tail?" Brady winked as he directed a group of civilians down a corridor.

M'quelo looked at Fionnghal. "Think _freckled_, with scraggily blond hair..."

"What?" She said. "Not _Quinn_?"

Asher crossed his arms. "So, I'm guessing that means you didn't, uh—"

"The opportunity eluded me," she growled.

Her words were defensive, as if she were rebutting some vile accusation. Asher didn't intend his words to be accusatory. But he could see how Fionnghal might interpret them that way.

The cottontail merely nodded in reply.

"Alright," he said.

"They'll need assistance climbing up that emergency chute and getting away from the base; the dames still rule the skies out there," M'quelo said.

Fionnghal nodded. "That may be true, but Sonic did manage to KO the Dame commander. They won't be as coordinated as usual. That said: who do we send to round-up the juvies? Gotta say, I'm not a terribly strong climber..."

"I'm more for the trees than metal chutes," Brady said.

Asher leaned against a wall, casually watching the civilians race by. He blinked twice.

"Climbing might not be necessary..." He pointed to the crowd.

Fionnghal followed his finger. Her eyes instantly locked onto a brilliant tapestry of greens and blues racing through the hallway: elegant plumage on an elegant bird's body.

"Woah! Is that... is that a chaffinch?" She looked back at Asher and M'quelo. "We got a _chaffinch_?"

"She must be a civilian," M'quelo said.

"Not anymore!" The rat grabbed the finch as she passed them. It was an awkward grab: the finch stood at least as tall as Asher, and when snared the bird glared down at Fionnghal with a pair of wide, contemptuous eyes. Her voice was a shrill klaxon.

"Release me, at _once_! Who do you think you are, you brutish _rat_?"

"Name's Fionnghal, pretty birdie." The rat cocked her head back at the males behind her. "Meet M'quelo, and Asher."

The finch's eyes widened; her beak parted, gaping.

"Uh... oh, oh _my_."

"You got a name, polly?"

"What? Why, I should say so! _I _am Fringelline Sheldapple Spiza-Pinson Vinkholler—"

"Right: _Fringe_. Got it. It's nice. Catchy." The rat pulled the finch closer to the group. "How'd you like to take a little trip down to medical, polly? We've got some juvies that need rescuing, and your wings look reasonably strong, for a chaffinch, at least."

The bird pulled away from Fionnghal, scoffing.

"I'm not such a common gopher to be ordered about!"

"Some of my best friends are gophers," Brady replied. "But these three here are my commanding officers, and they're also your _protectors_, little lady. That affords them some extra weight, don't you think?"

"Extra... 'weight'?"

The finch blinked, seemingly confused. She looked Fionnghal up and down.

"What? Well, yes, granted: Mistress Fionnghal at least appears to be not malnourished."

One of the rat's ears twitched.

"What?"

"Get down to medical and give those juvies a lift, polly." Brady said. "Those're orders from your protectors—"

A lyrical coo burst from the finch's beak. It was an extraordinarily beautiful sound, and if Asher didn't know a little finch lowspeak he might've thought it sounded sweet. The translation, however, ended in a very crude four-letter word.

"'Protectors'?" She flapped one wing dramatically.

"'_Not_ _malnourished_?" Fionnghal growled.

"What is it, precisely, you are _protecting _us from? This calamity is devolved into bedlam! Chaos! All these brutish invaders are marching against us with impunity! Tell me: just what are _you_ doing, at present?"

Fionnghal grabbed the finch by her neck.

"At present this '_brutish_, not-malnourished rat' is about to pluck each and every one of your pretty little tail-feathers right off of your bony backside—"

Brady chuckled.

"'Suppress the assassin within you, my dear'..."

"Flies and vinegar, Fionnghal," Asher mumbled.

The rat released the finch's neck. She sighed.

"Look, Fringe: you go to medical, do what needs doing. Do what they _tell _you to do. I'll owe you, alright? _Big time_—"

"Owe me _what_? We're being driven out from this miserable little hovel as it is! Before long we'll be sleeping with the owls and wolves, out on the open _ground_!"

Fionnghal gripped the finch's shoulders, baring her teeth.

"If that's true for the rest of us, then you _won't _be. I promise. I'll see to that myself, polly, even if I have to build you a bloody nest twig-by-twig-by-twig. You got that?"

The finch looked at the rat, and then the rest of the group, her face cemented with haughty skepticism. M'quelo, however, offered her some sage advice.

"A rat will fastidiously abide her word, you should know. You should _also _know that if you _don't _go to medical right this very moment there's a good chance Fionnghal will cut you in half."

The finch eventually relented, mumbling something about "brutish _brutes_" while she pattered down the corridor towards medical.

Not too long after this their corridor was rocked by a series of explosions; smoke billowed from a wall, which soon began crumbling under the weight of metallic arms, pushing hard against it.

And all through the corridor rose the garbled baying of wolves.

"The civilians need a few more minutes to evacuate," M'quelo said. "We need to buy time. I suggest two of us remain here with Brapes to hold off the elites. The other should ensure the civilians' escape."

A cutthroat smirk blossomed on Fionnghal's narrow lips. She held up her sword, cocking a brow at Asher.

"Now might be the time to _stop_ 'suppressing' certain impulses in me. So, _playtime_, Ash?"

The cottontail retrieved his sawn-off, checking his ammunition as he spoke.

"Concur," he growled.


	5. The Fearless

"The Fearless"

I.

Quinn ducked as the gunfire raged above him. He didn't need to, though: the bullets were fired far away from the boy, and they weren't meant for him. But the target they _were_ meant for was just as unlikely to be struck.

The blue blur hit the assailant head-on, knocking its terrible metal wolf face to one side and then landing a quick punch to its stomach. The creature doubled-over in pain, even as two reinforcements arrived to help.

Sonic greeted them with a cruel half-smirk.

Seconds later the wolves were reeling from the hedgehog's assault. Sonic used the walls of the room as springboards, pummeling the hapless creatures into submission.

One wolf suddenly fell back against the catwalk, teetering over the edge. It was a good three story drop to the floor below where Quinn crouched in the darkness. The creature screamed as it lost its footing.

But then the hedgehog was there: Sonic dashed up underneath the creature, taking its lower body out from under it, spinning the wolf in the air and, subsequently, keeping the hapless creature from falling over the rail. The maneuver was less than graceful, however, and as soon as the hedgehog performed it Quinn noticed a glittering pink speck of light fall from their catwalk. It landed right between the boy's legs with a crystalline ping. It was the hedgehog's emerald, still on its chain. The thing's brilliant pink luster quickly faded to green as the boy picked it up.

Sonic, meanwhile, violently kicked the prostrate wolf in the head, knocking it out cold. Its companion had taken the opportunity to retrieve its assault rifle, but it barely managed to raise the thing in the air before Sonic's metal-studded leg came around— a silver blur of light and sound—in a supersonic roundhouse. The wolf's gun flew from his hands and into a nearby wall, where it shattered into tiny pieces, leaving a two-inch dent.

Sonic cocked his brow, smirking at the wolf.

The wolf looked at the dented wall, and then back at the hedgehog.

Quinn had no idea that a _metal _tail would stick itself between an animal's legs when it turned to run away like a frightened little girl.

But it did.

Sonic popped his knuckles, then his neck, and then he was gone down another corridor.

Now alone, Quinn surveyed the gigantic emerald in his hands.

"A little gaudy, don't you think?"

He shrugged, trying to wedge the thing into his jumpsuit pockets without success. Ultimately he placed it around his own neck, where it bounced up against the boy's ring on its chain. Quinn soldiered on through the complex, unsure where the snaking tunnels might lead him next.

The deeper parts of the complex were dark and misty with steam from ruptured pipes. Quinn found a ladder and struggled up it, but at its top he came face-to-face with a metal wolf mask. The wolf appeared just as startled by Quinn as Quinn was by it.

And that is saying something.

The creature raised its firearm; Quinn's heart leapt into his throat. The boy caught his breath. His skin grew deathly pale.

And then, slowly, that dull green emerald around his neck grew pink.

The boy's vision swam. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion, as if his life were flashing before his eyes. Granted, he only had about 48 hours of 'life' to recall, so this was a fairly brief trip.

But Quinn soon arrived at a startling realization: things didn't '_seem_' to be moving in slow-motion.

They actually were.

He slipped off the ladder and fell uncontrolled in the air, but this wasn't a free-fall. It was a slow, elegant descent, like some delicate ballet maneuver. Quinn could hear his heartbeat in his head, beating out an impossibly slow cadence. He could see the ladder rungs as they passed by quite clearly, and as he watched all this his hands slowly, reflexively, extended and gripped one of the ladder rungs, swung his body over and around the ladder, where he landed in a small alcove opposite, tumbling up against the wall. The move was impossible: there was no way he could hope to do something like that unrehearsed.

But right now 'time' was on his side, so to speak.

Quinn lay in the alcove, stunned and panting. As he lay there the emerald around his neck faded back from pink to green. His heartbeat suddenly accelerated, reaching its natural cadence, and his breathing, too, returned to a harried pace.

He tried to find words to adequately summarize the effect of this experience. An elegant phrase came to mind.

"Holy _shit_!"

He shelved his wonder (not an easy thing to do) and focused on escaping the small alcove. He found a loose piece of siding that concealed a tiny crawlspace; it was barely wide enough to accommodate his body.

"If that spazzy cheetah's responsible for this place's upkeep," he muttered, "then it's a wonder the whole place doesn't come down on our heads..."

Words like that tend to tempt fate. In this instance fate accepted the invitation.

The boy's crawlspace suddenly shuddered, and then buckled down into the floor below. Quinn went tumbling into the place: a small room containing a large console and nearly a dozen monitors set up against the wall. A glass partition revealed the large room beyond: it was the medical bay, the place Quinn woke up in.

_Twice_, in fact.

"I just can't seem to stay away, can I?" He growled.

He was ready to stand up and dust himself off, but one of the monitors suddenly sparked to life, prompted by a support beam landing on the console. Through dust and sparks Quinn was treated to an image.

It was an image of _himself_.

The footage was an overhead shot of the boy lying unconscious on the medical table, girded in that skimpy green gown he'd originally woken up in. Fresh blood oozed from the tiny holes in his forehead. Shadows loomed all around the table.

"So, the sedative cocktail...?"

"We think it'll last for another hour, at least. But this is a human, of course. And a _juvenile _human, to boot. The metabolism is an unknown factor. Still, any more sedation and we risk shutting down the lungs..."

Asher, the cottontail, approached Quinn's side. He trained one finger along the boy's forehead.

"The lobes were tapped? Why in the hell was she given neural stims?"

"Tails was being a little over-efficient," Fionnghal stepped into the camera's view. "And it's a _he_, by the way."

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" This voice Quinn didn't recognize. A chameleon appeared in the shot, sauntering over to the other side of Quinn's body. "Doesn't matter one _bit_. 'Cause when it comes to survival, it's either he, she, it or _we_, am I right? I'm surprised you've let him go on breathing for _this _long..."

The chameleon pulled an object from its vest: a glistening dagger.

Asher scoffed.

"How very heartless, Kakkari."

"Practical," the chameleon replied. "As chief of security, you know damn-well where _I_ stand—"

"This decision requires ourinput, of course," Fionnghal crossed her arms.

"And I mean all due respect. But you both know as well as I what the Eggman's gonna to do to us as soon as he learns that we've got a flesh-and-blood human in our paws. Put simply— 'heartlessly', if you will? Dirty business needs doin', so go ahead and give the word, superiors-mine, and I'll fillet what needs filleting—"

"There's an _assassin_ present, you know," Fionnghal said. She surveyed the unconscious boy. "Spilled blood is _my _business, chameleon..."

Kakkari bowed.

"But of course. So, then: just say the woooord..."

Asher looked away, his face cemented in a dark scowl.

"Barbaric thing," he said. "But the human _would _be dead anyway if we hadn't removed him from his tube. So, then, killing him is really only..."

The cottontail shook his head, scoffing.

"...it's still _killing_, isn't it?"

"There's also the question of what he may know," Fionnghal said. "About his ship, and about the reason for its journey..."

Kakkari scoffed.

"A juvenile like this is hardly worthy of questioning. What do _our _juvies know about _Filigree's_ operations, huh? No. It's not worth the time, in my opinion."

There was a long pause. Both the chameleon and the rat watched Asher think. Finally the cottontail waved a paw.

"Our civvys are the bottom line. They _have _to be." Asher looked over at Fionnghal. "That means we have to be 'barbaric'. So kill him, I say. I suppose we haveto."

Kakkari looked to the rat.

"Well, Fionnghal?"

Fionnghal arched her brow. She crossed her arms.

"Well, we need M'quelo in here to help make that decision, of course—"

Kakkari scoffed.

"You do _not_ need a third opinion—"

"Of course we do! We operate on—"

"_Majority_ _rule_," the chameleon interrupted. "And you're the Big _Three_. We only need the 'eight-legged-one' if you disagree with Asher. Otherwise it's two-to-one at worse and we can get right down to slaughtering this poor little primate. We get to save the base from a _brutal _counterattack by the Delts, be big heroes to all, and—"

"I'm _willing _to kill this juvenile," she said. "But I'm _not_ willing to—"

"Be the one actually _making_ the call?" Kakkari sneered at the rat. "By the gods, Fionnghal! What is it: you're a killer, but you can't be the one to _decide_ his fate, am I right? Oh, you've gotta be _kidding_ me!"

"Kakkari," Asher growled. "Be respectful—"

The chameleon pointed at Fionnghal.

"I only need to _respect_ someone who makes the tough decisions, Ash. Fi's supposed to be one of our leaders, isn't she? Well, if the _brownie_ here won't make those tough calls—"

"_Kakkari_," Fionnghal's scowl devolved into a bare-tooth snarl.

The chameleon twirled his blade.

"Somebody's gotta do what's necessary to protect this base!"

He took one step towards the boy.

"Nez! We have _not _reached an agreement, yet." Asher's voice was calm, but deathly serious.

"Give me one, then! An agreement, I mean!" He looked at Fionnghal. "C'mon, Fi: you tell me _right now_ that you don't want this kid dead, and I'll stay my hand. That'd be fine: that's a legitimate command decision. We'll go get M'quelo as a tie-breaker, he'll put in his two cents, and that'll be that. Or else tell me you want him _dead_, and then he'll be dead. But you gotta pick one, right _now_. Which is it, Fionnghal? _You_ have to decide: death, or life?"

Quinn cocked his head as he watched the playback: the rat's teeth gnawed at her lower lip. Fionnghal said nothing for several seconds.

"Nez... I'm not comfortable deciding this, not until we get M'quelo—"

"Then you've _abrogated _your decision, brownie!"

Asher drew a calm breath.

"Kakkari. Do _not_—"

The chameleon took another step, leaning over the boy's body. His blade came down against Quinn's throat. Quinn involuntarily grasped his own neck, protectively, as he watched.

Immediately there was light, and smoke, and noise.

Kakkari Nez screamed, falling down against Quinn's table. Green and black jelly oozed along the floor; a good chunk of the chameleon's torso was burnt and torn apart. He lay on his side, struggling for breath as Asher stood alert, sawn-off shotgun still smoking in his hand.

By now Fionnghal had already leapt over Quinn's unconscious body, racing to the supine chameleon's side.

"Damn it, Kakkari!" She yelled.

Asher looked over the table, surveying the damage to the chameleon. He holstered his weapon and moved away from the camera's range.

"Damn, indeed. I'll get Miles," he growled. "Although you damn-well don't deserve it, Kakk..."

The chameleon appeared shocked— dazed by the turn of events. This was despite the fact that he'd just been perforated at point-blank range by both barrels of a shotgun. That kind of thing shouldn't make one 'dazed', should it?

It should make them '_dead'_, right?

Quinn thought so, at least.

But, for whatever reason, he wasn't. Fionnghal was at his side, holding together his rent flesh as Kakkari slowly returned to consciousness. He first looked down at his decimated torso, and then up at the rat.

"Don't... don't blame Asher for that," she said. "He... well, we're _all _under a lot of—"

"I don't blame him," the chameleon's voice was bitter ice. "Not one bit..."

"That... that's good..." Fionnghal stuttered.

"'Cause this 'spilled blood is _your_ business', brownie! You're a waffling little tool, and this is your fault. I blame _you_!"

The rat winced as a salvo of bloody spit hit her nose. She dropped the chameleon and stood up, wiping her face. For a time she just stood there, staring at the unconscious chameleon beneath her. She briefly looked at Quinn, lying on the table. Eventually she turned, walking off, her lip firmly cemented in her teeth.

After that there was nothing but static from the monitor.

By now the boy was on his feet, staring at the screen with a small lump in his throat.

"Hmmm," he muttered.

That was all he could think to say. Especially when he thought about earlier. Just why did Fionnghal show off that cool sword to him? Why was she standing behind him, still holding it _in her hand_, while he sat there sobbing like a little preschooler?

Why, indeed?

Quinn blinked.

"Hmmm," he repeated.

A series of small explosions rocked the complex, reverberating throughout the medical bay in strained groans. It sounded like a pissed-off whale, Quinn thought.

"Wonder if I've ever seen a whale, before..." the boy walked through the wrecked room, shaking his head.

His heart skipped a beat; rhythmic tapping sounded near one console, along with a high-pitch hum. A small shadow rocked back and forth beneath the table: it was the little two-tailed fox from earlier. He was up on his haunches, gently tapping one finger against the bandage covering his forehead just above his right eye. Those eyes were scrunched painfully, brow furrowed like a crater, and he shook his head.

"P— process... process... desensitize... stimulus... engage... process!"

"Hey," Quinn knelt down. He gently put one hand on the fox's shoulder. The juvenile's response was immediate, and unexpectedly severe: he leapt up, slamming his head into the underside of the table as he pushed away from Quinn's touch. His eyes were panicked black marbles, burning with fear.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Quinn said. "Don't you remember me? I'm—"

"The degenerate hippocampus," the fox appeared to be staring _through _Quinn, rather than at the boy.

"Well, I think there's a bit more to me than that—"

Another explosion rocked the room; this one was accompanied by a storm of metal and concrete. One of the walls collapsed and a troop of metal-faced wolves stormed into the room.

Quinn scrambled backward, panicked, while the fox huddled tighter into a small ball, again beating his fingers against the bandage on his forehead. His rhythmic whimpering suddenly gave way to a primal snarl.

"Rrrrrrargh!" The fox suddenly leapt to his feet and raced to a nearby console; he manically hammered the keyboard, gloved fingers a blur. He then slammed his hand down on a nearby button, still screaming.

The approaching wolves made it halfway across the room. At that point their metal-studded bodies suddenly exploded with brilliant white light; a massive bolt of blue lightning struck them from the room's ceiling. Even from his considerable distance Quinn's body bristled with the jolt: he was touching one of the metal beds, and as he moved his hand away a brief contact spark lingered, dancing on his fingertips.

The wolves screamed in agony; a few of them seized up and dropped their weapons. The fox hammered his console again, and again that terrible shaft of light enveloped the wolves. Many of them fell to the ground this time, bodies shaking uncontrollably.

He hit them again. Now every wolf was either on their knees or rolling around on the floor, all of their weapons lay strewn about the room.

Then the fox hit them again.

And then again.

Again.

And then again.

A spurt of white froth graced the fox's mouth as he screamed; Quinn gripped his shoulders, struggling to pull him away from the console, but the fox struggled against him, thrashing insanely in his arms.

Gentle hands pulled Quinn away; Myrtle was there, gripping the fox by his gloved hands. She held on firmly as the fox continued struggling, but eventually he calmed down enough for the sugar glider to speak to him. Her voice was soothing, but it wavered unsteadily.

"They're gone Tails. Do you understand? They're _gone_, now..."

Tails' eyes slowly stopped quivering. He pulled away from Myrtle, resting his back against a wall. He looked like he was trying to speak, but his words were all stammers. He finally decided on a brief nod, one hand scratching at the bandage on his head. He sat down, curling his knees up against his chest.

Myrtle turned to Quinn, no doubt picking up the boy's shocked grimace.

"Tails is... well, he doesn't do so well with noise, and with..." the sugar glider shrugged. "Anyway, he's going to be fine now, I think."

"But are _we_?" Quinn asked.

"Hopefully. I have the juveniles next door, and we're going to try climbing the emergency chute here in medical. That'll at least get us outside, and then we'll have to meet-up with our protectors. We _should_ be coordinating with them, but I don't think we can, right now. I'm pretty sure that Delta Tribe can hear our internal communications." The sugar glider's brow rose. "Oh, wait, Quinn: weren't you with Mistress Fionnghal before the attack? What happened? Where is she?"

The boy scratched his head, staring down at his feet.

"I... uh, well, I don't know. She was ambushed upstairs. I got away, but it sounded like she didn't. The Delts may have taken her. Or maybe she's dead—"

"Oh, and do _not _I wish that most _heartily_!"

Quinn jumped as a voice sounded behind him. He turned his head and was greeted to a brilliant cerulean curtain: it was a shimmering wall of downy feathers swaying delicately to and fro. The creature was extremely tall, and a yellow snub-nosed beak jutted from her mouth, complete with a few elegant lines set faintly against it. Quinn first thought this was a tattoo, but then he realized it would have to be some kind of etching.

"Alas, Mistress Fionnghal lives. That brutish little rat and her fellows sent me down here. She must be insane, I think..."

"You saw Fionnghal with M'quelo and Asher? So they're all alive?" Myrtle asked.

"For what that is worth. Namely? _Little_."

Quinn still gaped up at the creature. He finally chose a topic for intelligent conversation.

"You— you're a bird," he said.

"They sent you to help us?" Myrtle asked. "Oh, so you can _fly _the juveniles out of here, right? Brilliant of them!"

Quinn wouldn't let the matter go.

"She's a _bird_? Really? A bird. Feathers and all? I mean, they have _parrots_ on Mobius, too?"

"She's more a chaffinch, I think," Myrtle said.

"You're kind of missing the point—"

"Please, if you could _silence _this hideous little naked mole rat!" The bird shuddered as she surveyed Quinn. "It's enough having to look at him at all."

Quinn wrinkled his nose.

"What? 'Naked mole rat'? But I'm—"

"—going to be _quiet_, now." Myrtle gripped Quinn's shoulders. It was a gentle embrace, although her tough claws dug at him a bit. That seemed intentional. He first thought to protest.

And then he quickly got on Myrtle's wavelength.

"Yeah, I think I _am_ gonna be quiet, now," he mumbled.

"My name's Myrtle," the sugar glider said. "And this is Quinn."

The chaffinch rested a feathered hand over her elegantly adorned breast, cocking her head dramatically.

"Fringelline Sheldapple Spiza-Pinson Vink—"

"Taaaaaall..." Quinn craned his neck up at the bird.

"How much weight can you carry?" Myrtle asked. "How long will it take you to get the juveniles out?"

"But of course it depends on the species, as well as the weight." The chaffinch wrinkled her beak. "And likely on how _clean_ the little urchins are: I can only abide so much of the stink of juveniles. Mammals, especially. Oh, but no offense, of course."

Quinn didn't see how he _couldn't _be offended by that. But he wisely kept his mouth shut until the chaffinch went next door to size-up their roster of juveniles.

"It's best we don't antagonize her," Myrtle explained. "And about you being human: it's probably better that she doesn't know. When it comes to humans, well, there are certain prejudices—"

"She's _nothing _but prejudices," Quinn scowled.

"Still—"

The boy shrugged, sitting in a nearby chair.

"Whatever. What do I know? I'm just a 'stinky juvenile mammal'..."

A static peal burst through the room, rattling everyone. One of the dead wolves' radios came to life: the garbled voice on the other end was barely audible.

"All units be advised of heavy resistance at the northwest passage. _Filigree_ commanding officers are confirmed to be among combatants. Houndstooth will rendezvous with units there in order to eliminate targets. All other available units converge on lower decks, and the medical wing."

That ominous news was met with a grim assessment from the chaffinch when she returned: they were looking at about eight trips up and down the emergency tunnel before all the juveniles were evacuated.

"They'll be on us long before we finish," Myrtle paced nervously, one hand on her lips. "I don't know what we should do. I don't know what we _can _do."

Quinn got an idea pretty quickly. However, like all the ideas he'd had in the past few hours, this one was very likely to get him either seriously injured or killed. Then again, that was probably going to happen even if he did nothing.

"Nothing ventured..." he muttered.

"What?" Myrtle asked.

Quinn ignored the sugar glider and approached the chaffinch.

"You should start flying the juveniles out of here right away," he said. "As fast as you can."

The bird bristled.

"It'll be a warm day in the ether when I take orders from a juvenile mole rat!"

"Please," Myrtle pleaded. "We don't have much time."

The finch eventually relented. While she was rounding up the other juveniles Quinn asked Myrtle for help locating the communication controls.

"Do you really think that Delta Tribe is monitoring communications, Myrtle?"

"Our protectors teach us not to use them if the base is ever breached, so yes, probably. I don't think we can communicate with anyone safely."

The boy nodded. He flipped the communication switch, much to Myrtle's horror, but the boy held up a steady hand.

"Don't worry. I'm communicating _unsafely_. It's on purpose."

He leaned up near the speakers and cleared his throat.

"Fionnghal, are you there? It's me, Quinn. I heard you were in the northwest passage. I'm crossing the base on my way to you, right now, but it'll take me awhile: I'm just leaving medical, now—"

The speakers crackled; the rat's voice exploded across the line.

"_Quinn_? Listen to me: you need to shut the hell up, _right now_—"

"And I'm all alone, too, but I think if I stick to the main corridors I'll be fine—"

"_Hey_! What the hell is wrong with you? I said—"

"And I might get a little lost along the way, too. But you have to forgive me if I do, okay?"

The boy's eyes hardened as he stared at the speakers. He drew a long breath.

"After all: I'm only _human_, aren't I?"

"Gods, _Quinn_! Shut the fu—"

The boy killed communications. He sighed, long and hard.

Myrtle gasped. "What were you thinking? What on earth are you doing?"

The boy shook his head.

"Something _incredibly _stupid," he said.

II.

"—ck up!"

When only static met her ears Fionnghal let loose a piercing shriek in her rat lowspeak. She bashed her radio against the floor.

"Yeah: that'll teach it," Brady muttered.

The sloth stood poised behind Fionnghal, Asher bringing up the rear. The trio glared down the black corridor before them. Thick smoke hung in the air like a funeral shroud; Asher's shotgun barrels still smoldered with a noxious mess of soot and cordite. Brady's combat facemask was dented in several places, and his fearsome claw-extenders bent at odd angles from overuse. Fionnghal was again covered in a fresh coating of animal blood.

And— again— very little of it was her own.

She stood at the ready, sword poised with its blue flame dancing along the edge. The QED in its hilt was the only source of light for the trio, and it barely penetrated the gloom. The civilians had long since disappeared for the northwest compound exit behind them, their mob-like shouts completely gone. Now there was only silence and smoke.

That, and the unmistakable scent of bloody carnage.

Several burlap sacks hung above the trio, swinging in the breeze like a spider's cocooned prey. They had retrieved these from the armory. There was enough plastic explosive wedged into those sacks to vaporize half the northwest passageway, consequently bringing most of the floors above them down a level.

Not that they planned on letting anybody get by them, mind you.

"Think that's the lot of them?" Brady asked.

"No." Asher and Fionnghal answered in unison, reflexively and immediately.

"Inclined to agree," the sloth muttered.

But as the seconds passed the silence only intensified. That, in itself, was ominous.

But the next noise to meet their ears was enough to freeze the blood.

The floor beneath them rattled, kicking up dust and concrete chunks. It sent shivers into Fionnghal's legs; the rat willed herself into a tighter combat stance.

Then there was the howl.

Wolves don't howl when they're in pain. That should be noted, here. Howling is a logistical operation: it communicates a howler's location to the rest of the pack and conveys information that would be useful both in hunting and foraging. Other signals, such as whimpering, _do _in fact communicate pain, but howling? Nope. Wolves do _not_ howl when they're in pain.

So it couldn't be said that the noise before them was 'animal' at all.

It wasn't.

In fact, it was almost entirely _inanimal_.

The guttural roar erupted throughout the corridor, mixed with what sounded like the pained whirring of a shattered blender. There was a terrible squeal trapped inside that roar, too: like the death-throes of a gutted eagle. Somewhere in that awful mess of pain and noise, lurking at the forefront, was a barely-recognizable tenor: it was something canine. Yeah, a howl _did _exist in that shriek.

But it was buried deep, deep within it.

Clawed metal feet stamped along the corridor; vulgar white orbs pierced the smoky darkness, outlining a predatory body. The creature moved through the gloom, but it was more a hideous hulking mass than anything organic. Cruel, boxy shoulders lurched unevenly as oversized metal arms waved about, all riddled with jagged edges. At its head— at least twelve feet off the ground— a massive gunmetal silhouette leered out of the darkness. There was a face in that thing.

And there was something canine, there.

But just barely.

Fionnghal's smirk evaporated.

"Huh," she muttered.

Brady's fur sagged; the sloth pulled his helmet off, straining his eyes to get a better look at the leviathan.

"_Houndstooth_!" He whispered.

He dropped his helmet back down over his head; his knees moved in restless sputters and starts. He took a deliberate step forward.

Asher's hand gripped the sloth's shoulder. Brady looked back at the cottontail, his face set in a dark sneer. Asher only shook his head once, very slowly, and with grave effect.

Brady's legs conspired to move forward again, but the sloth eventually relented.

The trio stood their ground as the guttural squeal sounded again. Gaudy, terribly bright eyes shone in the darkness as the shape lumbered forward. But then it turned, ponderously, and stalked off down a side corridor, fading into the soupy gloom. That 'something canine' within the leviathan shrieked once again, distant, as the echoes of its footsteps faded.

Fionnghal lowered her sword.

"Well, that would've been a good death." She let out a plaintive sigh, almost as if she lamented the creature's disappearance.

"Bit messy, I'd think," Asher noted.

"Looks like they've made-up for the loss of their Dame commander," Fionnghal said. "By a long shot. Well, if they brought Houndstooth in on this assault that means we've gone _way_ beyond dealing with Tatu and the Delta regulars."

"_Eggman_, pure and simple," Asher nodded.

Howls echoed throughout the darkness before them. Unlike the squeals of the leviathan, though, these were not howls of pain.

They were howls of hunting.

"Aaaaand we've got the Elites," Brady said.

"Goody, goody," Fionnghal smirked. She looked back at Asher. "Of course that raises the question: what in the hell are they using Houndstooth for? We were right in front of it. Tell me that poor thing hasn't gone blind?"

"No. I think it's got a taste for _human _flesh, at the moment," Asher said.

The rat's eyes widened; she cursed in lowspeak.

"Of course! Quinn: that little _idiot_! What the hell is he thinking?"

Brady scratched his side with one bent claw extender.

"If I had to guess? He probably thinks that he can buy the juvies some time over in medical. And maybe pull some of the heat off us, to boot. Seeing how the Delts have reacted so far? Well, I think he might be right."

The rat looked at Brady, her eyes at first vacant, and then skeptical. Despite her best efforts her oversized upper teeth found themselves nipping at her lip.

"That's ridiculous," she said.

"Well, he certainly _could_ be a noble little thing, couldn't he?" Asher shrugged. "Or a raging idiot, for that matter."

"Why can't it be both?" Brady smirked.

Fionnghal looked to one side, her blue eyes uncertain. Finally she wagged her head, scowling.

"Whatever the case, I suppose _someone_ should go collect the body, huh?"

The howls in the corridor crested: a dozen heavy sets of boots tromped over the ground. Wolves swarmed the hall, their automatic weapons glistening under flickering floodlights.

Fionnghal again brandished her sword. The blade's blue edge highlighted her menacing smirk.

"But, first, let's leave a few bodies lying _here_, huh?"

III.

Thanks in part to good timing, along with Myrtle's justified cowardice, Quinn managed to slip out of medical and down the corridors leading to the northwest passage. At least he _hoped _they lead there.

The sugar glider shouted after him, frantic, but as Quinn predicted she didn't chase after him. Both she and the chaffinch had their work cut out for themselves as it was; they couldn't afford to go running after him. There was simply no time for them to babysit a juvenile human.

"Kid," Quinn muttered, shaking his head. "I'm a _kid_." He already found their nomenclature annoying. Then it occurred to him what confusion might develop if he were ever introduced to a young goat.

"I couldjust call him 'cabrito'," he groused.

The boy stayed low and out of sight; twice he passed by wolf patrols, successfully hiding each time. When his corridor became too crowded he ducked down a smaller passage, stalking through a maze of valves and pipes.

Suddenly there was a tug at his throat; he thought his head might come clean off his neck. He choked, and then realized that the pressure was coming from one of the chains around his neck: a white-gloved hand stuck out from the maze of pipes. It held the giant emerald tight in its fist.

Quinn peered through the metal forest: the eyes that greeted him were familiar, if not friendly.

"_Juvenile_," Sonic grumbled.

The hedgehog waited for the boy to remove the trinket from his neck before quickly pulling it back through the wall of pipes. Quinn thought it rather nice of him to wait before forcefully yanking both jewel and boy through that inches-wide gap in the pipes.

The hedgehog replaced the giant emerald around his neck, scowling.

"Unless you're _exceedingly _talented at astral projection, I think you went and moved more than a few inches from where I damn-well told you _not _to move," he said.

"Couldn't be helped," Quinn answered.

"Why the hell not?"

The boy crossed his arms.

"Because the juveniles over in medical _could _be helped: they're evacuating right now. And the Delts are looking for _me_, not them, so they'll at least be safe."

Sonic's eyes narrowed, piercing the boy like daggers through that rusty jungle of pipes. Quinn thought he saw a vicious sneer worming over the hedgehog's face, though it just as easily could have been an appreciative smirk. A small chuckle escaped his lips, but it confirmed neither hypothesis: the laugh could just as easily be 'pleasurable' or 'malevolent'.

"So you really are _Qui'ntroshe_, aren't you?" He said.

Quinn cocked his head.

Noises sounded in the corridors beyond; Sonic alerted, but then relaxed. He looked back at the boy, his eyes serious.

"Don't you go and die on me, juvenile. I owe you _two _good thrashings now, don't I?"

"I don't plan on dying," the boy answered. "But, really, it doesn't much matter if I do anyway, does it?"

The hedgehog again smirked.

"_Qui'ntroshe_…" He shook his head.

Before Quinn could get another word out Sonic was gone: vanished in a shockwave of light and heat. The boy shielded his eyes and stepped back until the ringing in his ears faded.

He wandered around the underside of the corridors, mostly blind, until he managed to at least get some bearings. There were marquees scattered about the otherwise impenetrable maze of branching corridors, and as he concentrated enough on their scribbled gibberish Quinn managed to extract their meanings. The process left him with a raging headache, however, and he was delighted when he finally stumbled upon signs advertising the northwest exit.

But when he got to the room beyond his feet skidded to a dead halt; a heavy lump rose in his throat, almost strong enough to pop the boy's tongue right out of his mouth.

This was the base of the _Filigree _reactor: a large room decorated with scaffolding surrounding the mighty pillar that was the main reactor. The thing was broken, nearly toppled to one side, and all around the room were the signs of battle and carnage. There were bodies, and there was blood.

But that wasn't what fazed the boy.

Oversized metal boots clomped over the ground opposite Quinn: Fionnghal was there, poised at the ready, her sword shining ghostly blue. The rat was covered in blood, panting, decidedly tired-looking.

Her eyes instantly locked onto Quinn and she came to a stop. Through her panting it appeared she was about to speak, but then she closed her mouth. A small smile of recognition forming at the edges of that mouth aborted, ending in a blank, granite stare; she obviously picked-up on the boy's facial expression.

Truthfully, Quinn had _no _idea what his exact facial expression was at the moment. But, whatever it was, it must have been _exceptionally_ expressive. Quinn stared into the rat's eyes, and the rat stared right back at him. Neither spoke for an interminable time; it lasted _forever_, too. At least five whole seconds.

Doesn't really sound like a long time, does it?

It was.

And then, when the rat finally opened her mouth, she was rudely interrupted.

Concrete and bent rebar rained down from the sky. Fionnghal fell onto her rear, and then she reflexively scooted backward as an avalanche of debris came for her. Quinn couldn't see through the dust that followed.

And he had more important things to worry about, now.

A figure rose out of that cloud of rubble. It was a twisted hulk of jagged metal and brilliant white orbs. It turned its massive head, slowly, in Quinn's direction, leering at the boy. There was something terrible in those vapid, hollow eyes.

And there was at least _something_ canine there, too.

Quinn opened his mouth; he planned on letting loose a certain four-letter word. But when the monster before him belted out its screeching howl the boy was sent reeling off his feet.

And then he got up.

And then he ran.

The creature's metal claws hammered the floor as it loped after the boy. Quinn scrambled under a pile of concrete and rebar struts, nearly impaling himself on the metal sticks as he scrambled. Gnashing teeth filled the hole, snapping together like a bear trap nipping at his heels. The boy screamed; one of his feet exploded with pain. The monster's teeth grazed the bone of his ankle, tearing flesh and removing his shoe entirely, along with a good portion of his jumpsuit leg. He kicked his feet frantically, but only found an impenetrable metal facemask below.

Quinn made the best of this situation; he dug at that terrible face with his naked foot until he could feel a hollow. He then wriggled down and propelled himself off the face, digging his big toe as deep as he could into that hollow eye socket beneath him.

The scream that followed, however, suggested it might be _less _than hollow.

Quinn managed to dig himself into a crevasse, worming down as deep as he could get. Outside, beyond the mess of twisted rebar, the creature howled again. Quinn's brow twitched as he felt pebbles and dust raining into his hair. He grimaced, eyes shut tight.

And then he snickered a bit.

"_Mole rat_," he whispered.

At least he wasn't _naked_. Not yet, anyway. If he exposed himself to that creature again, however, the thing just might rip off the rest of his jumpsuit. He didn't really care about that, truth be told. Quinn didn't think he was so much the modest type. Of course in the process his _skin _would probably come right off with the rest of his suit, though. That he couldn't abide.

"My skin happens to beQuinn-essential."

He snickered again.

And yes: he knew how stupid the joke was.

The creature began demolishing Quinn's hidey-hole, bashing the rubble flat. The boy managed to wriggle out onto the other side, soot gray and coughing like an asthmatic smoker. He scrambled up the pile of debris leading to the exit as the metal monster rooted around the pile behind him. Quinn's legs shuffled unevenly on the slope; he limped on his injured foot. He tripped, slamming his jaw onto the ground; tears blossomed in his eyes. He resorted to struggling on his hands and knees, desperate to crest the pile.

Then his face was an inch from Fionnghal's; the rat popped up over the top of the debris, reflexively extending her hands to him. Quinn looked up at the rat, eyes intense. He stared at her for all of two seconds.

Again, it doesn't really sound like a long time.

It was.

The boy reached up; instantly Fionnghal had him. She plucked him up from the ground and pulled him backwards. The pair tumbled down the opposite side of the rubble, landing in an undignified heap.

And when that screaming howl sounded above them, not a few feet from their heads, Quinn actually felt a warm spray of spit hammering the nape of his neck.

Well, _that _raised a few more questions, didn't it?

Fionnghal quickly rolled to one side, retrieving her longsword. The hilt exploded with bright white light as she activated its QED. She leapt to her feet as a blue flame enveloped her sword's blade.

Then what Quinn counted as the coolest thing _ever_ happened.

Fionnghal braced herself, holding the blade horizontally in front of her face. With one lightning fast swish she moved the blade in a dramatic arc. It was so quick that the air in front of her face glowed blue after she did it.

In fact, the air in front of her body glowed blue _long _after she did it, sparking like a wall of jagged sapphires: it was a ghostly curtain of light.

Fionnghal forced Quinn back, still brandishing her sword before the metal monster. The creature roared, charging directly into that strange, glittery wall between them. Sparks erupted all along the creature's body as it struck the phantom wall. It screamed in pain, bringing Quinn to his knees, clasping his ears. The monster's body heaved as it struggled against the barrier.

And it screamed again when it managed to break through.

But by then it had another problem on its hands.

A vortex of air knocked Quinn to the ground; Sonic landed in front of the monster, brow furrowed. He immediately leapt up, striking the creature with a powerful kick to the head. His foot landed directly in the monster's eye socket, directly where Quinn's toe had found flesh.

And Sonic found it, too.

A spurt of dark green fluid escaped the monster's eye. It stumbled backward unsteadily as Sonic landed another blow, this time against the monster's leg. It fell in a heap, landing on its back. The hedgehog didn't miss a beat, leaping up onto its jagged metal chest. Snarling, he landed a firm kick against the creature's throat, knocking up a cloud of bright sparks. Shards of metal flew from the wound, and while the creature was still stunned the hedgehog reached into that gaping hole. He pulled back as hard as he could.

There was a snap. It sounded 'wet'.

For some reason it made Quinn want to throw up.

Sonic fell back onto the ground; he now held a strange 'U' shaped device in his hands. A tiny speck of white light beamed along the metal prong's edges. He surveyed the device with a smile.

By now the monster was back on its feet. Sparks and green fluid still erupted from its throat. It balled its terrible fists, head rattling insanely. And then all those orbs of light along its body grew brighter. The air around the monster seemed to waver, as if boiling away.

It lunged for the hedgehog, missing Sonic by an inch. He raced into the darkness of a nearby corridor with the metal monster wobbling after him, leaving a train of green blood in its wake.

Fionnghal sat up. She cocked her head, looking down the corridor first, and then back at Quinn.

"That... was..."

"_Indescribable_," Quinn offered.

"Yeah," Fionnghal muttered.

"Yeah," the boy helpfully added.

They didn't have much time to wax philosophical; the ground shook with more explosions. Fionnghal got to her feet, pointing at the northwest exit.

"Time to leave," she said.

IV.

They were all weighed, and they were all measured. The plan was formulated, and the chaffinch went to work on it, grumbling all the while. All the pieces of their plan worked as expected. In fact, there was really only one problem with the plan at all.

It didn't take into account the presence of a 120-pound sugar glider.

Myrtle knew she'd have no choice but to climb the tunnel. And that didn't make things any easier. She picked a narrow divide between two oversized pipes to make her ascent, and the higher she went the harder she found it. Other than the possibility of falling to her death Myrtle found herself obsessing over the juveniles: were they okay on the surface? Was the chaffinch going to drop any of them? The bird made several passes in the tunnel as she went back and forth; she seemed to be handling the task decently enough.

For now, at least.

Myrtle soon reached a narrow catwalk. Her fur bristled and her oily eyes quivered. She could feel her muscles quaking, weakening. This wasn't really her body's fault: Myrtle _was _in pretty good shape. It just so happened that all the exercise she engaged in involved gliding. To that end, she was streamlined: wickedly slender, with not an ounce of excess fat. What she was _not_, however, was 'muscular'. Not at all. This was a worthwhile tradeoff, in her mind, and there was a very good reason Myrtle focused all her efforts on gliding.

It was an incredible thing to be able to do.

Suddenly there were boots on the catwalk. Myrtle quickly froze, holding position like a very cute gargoyle. Two warthogs lumbered before her; they got to the stomachs, weapons trained on the open tunnel before them.

The glider's blood froze; Myrtle's lips quivered. She trembled all over.

But she didn't move. She couldn't.

A shadow rose up through the tunnel: it was the chaffinch, coming up with a fresh bundle of juveniles.

The loud clack of guns cocking echoed in the tunnel. The hogs braced themselves at the ready, watching and waiting.

And then the chaffinch flew into view, rising up on the air, struggling with a small bundle of juveniles in her arms. She rose erratically, awkwardly.

Helplessly.

The warthogs drew beads on her from the shadow of their catwalk. Their fingers gripped the triggers tight.

Myrtle opened her mouth; she screamed. Bless her heart, that scream was completely soundless. She felt paralyzed; she couldn't do anything to stop them.

And then, finally, one of the hogs acted.

"Noncombatants," he snarled, getting to one knee. "Not worth the bullets."

The other hog sighed, brushing his bumpy forehead against his rifle butt.

"_So_ glad you think so," he muttered.

Soon the hogs' radios crackled to life: apparently there was some kind of disturbance near the northwest passage. At first Myrtle was afraid this might refer to Quinn, but the description she overheard on the radio was starkly different.

If Myrtle didn't know any better, she'd swear they were describing the Thallomoor Banshee.

She was soon left alone to continue her climb. But eventually Myrtle's muscles gave out and she could climb no more. She found an air vent and miraculously managed to wedge herself into it. She came out the other side dirty, smelly, and dead tired. She stumbled to a nearby table and hunched over it, panting.

Her muscles found enough energy to tense when the handgun came to rest at the back of her head.

"Don't move, dearie."

Myrtle was spun around and came face-to-face with a pair of possums. The leathery creatures' beady eyes widened a bit upon sight of her. The gun-toting possum squinted at her.

"What's your name, sugar?"

Myrtle's lips quivered; all she could do was stared down the gaping black barrel of the possum's gun.

"_Name_?" He repeated.

"M— Myrtle." She stammered.

The possums immediately exchanged glances with one another. One nodded at the other, and then Myrtle was forced off down the corridor, gun in the small of her back. The possums whispered to one another as they walked. Myrtle kept trying to sneak glances at them.

"Get _moving_, sugar!"

They moved up several flights of stairs and along a catwalk, finally reaching a small ancillary room near one of the compound's northern exits. Myrtle was roughly shoved inside, fearful of what awaited her.

A metal-faced wolf in battle fatigues stood in this room, idly conversing with a second individual. This individual happened to be a bulbous fat toad, sporting an elegant plaid vest. The wolf pointed at Myrtle, looking over at the toad quizzically.

"Is this the one, Thadesch?"

"Ah," the toad pulled a pipe from his mouth, shuffling across the floor with a wan smile. "That would be her, my very good sir."

The wolf nodded abruptly and signaled for the possums to follow him out a side door. They did, but the wolf lingered.

"Your balance is in the negative now, Thadesch," he grumbled.

The toad nodded. "I'm well aware of that. And I'm sure that the Ground Master can think of something he might need help with in the future that I might oblige—"

"I'm sure that's true," the wolf answered. "Just remember to monitor your frequencies."

The wolf left the room quickly, leaving Thadesch and Myrtle alone. The sugar glider stumbled forward, her brow furrowed.

"Thadesch, what was _that_?"

"Friend of a friend," the toad answered. "Well: not exactly. He's the friend of a _counterpart_. Let's just say that there's something of a little honor amongst spies, Myrtle. That which you kill you can no longer _use_, you know, so we spies take a certain self-serving fancy in our contacts."

The glider wrinkled her nose, her oily eyes skeptical.

The toad chuckled, extending an arm.

"Put another way: don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my dear."

Myrtle slowly took the toad's arm; he led her towards the complex exit.

"Y— you mean to say you've got a contact in Delta Tribe? Someone who's helping you?"

Thadesch didn't answer for some time; when he finally did he looked the glider up and down, snickering.

"What I mean to say is that you're absolutely _filthy_, my dear. You're in desperate need of a bath."

Myrtle thought she might not be the only one who needed to come clean.

But she kept that thought to herself.

V.

By the time they reached the northwest passage it was in flames. The pair bounded through smoke and ash, scrambling for the exit. Once they made it to the metal bridge dividing the _Filigree _complex from the outside world it was openly trembling, groaning with a terrible strain.

Quinn lagged behind Fionnghal; both his tender age and his injured foot served to hobble him. A small fracture rent the metal bridge in two; Fionnghal jumped it with ease, and Quinn prepared to do so with difficulty.

And then the entire bridge buckled.

Quinn fell to his knees as the bridge opposite him crumbled. Fionnghal barely managed to avoid plunging into the fiery abyss below. Twenty meters of bridge disappeared into the hellfire. Quinn really had no idea just how talented he was at the long jump.

But he guessed that twenty meters would be pushing it.

Fionnghal looked back at Quinn, meeting his eyes over the soot and ash boiling up beneath them. Quinn thought she might be considering his options, but the look on her face indicated that he probably had none.

Flames licked at the corridor behind him. They rose, nipping at the burlap sacks suspended overhead.

Fionnghal's eyes widened.

Quinn heard a loud 'pop' from of one of those bags. That much he could remember.

He didn't remember hearing anything else.

The explosion hit him like a hurricane; he was flung forward like a ragdoll, riding a comet of hot air and smoke. The blast sent him spiraling over the chasm, hurtling into the fiery abyss below. The whole thing took place in morbid slow-motion.

Quinn didn't need any emerald around his neck to feel _that _effect.

The boy closed his eyes.

And then there was a _second _explosion.

A force landed in the small of his back, pressing him forward. Quinn's stomach did a somersault: there was a massive kick to his forward momentum. He soared across the rest of the chasm, quite easilt clearing it. The next thing he knew he was tumbling over metal struts on the other side of the bridge, and then rolling through grass scrub. When he finally came to rest, supine, he opened his eyes.

Sonic's narrowed eyes met his, his face an inch from the boy's.

"_Juvenile_," he snarled.

The hedgehog leapt off the boy and crossed his arms.

"You just can't seem to stay out of my way? Can you, _Qui'ntroshe_?"

Quinn opened his mouth to answer, but only a hacking cough escaped his lips. He rolled over and expelled a stream of hot bile from his stomach.

Sonic scoffed, still standing over the boy as Fionnghal raced up to meet the pair. The hedgehog shook his head.

"I guess it's just as well you went and blocked my jump like that: I think we can count that little hit as one of your thrashings..."

He was nice enough to step a few feet away from the boy before blasting off in a whirlpool of light, the white orbs in his leg braces glowing like floodlights.

Fionnghal reached Quinn, but she didn't stop there. She took several steps past him, her eyes scanning the darkness in Sonic's wake. Eventually she shook her head, staring down at the scrub beneath her with her lower lip in her teeth.

Finally she took note of Quinn, who stared up at the rat with unsteady eyes. She forced a smile onto her face.

"Well, what do you say, huh?"

Again Quinn opened his mouth to answer, but he collapsed in a messy heap, instead. He was out before he even hit the ground.

VI.

Mist curled over the woods at dawn. Asher wandered amongst scattered piles of tech, wreck, and personal effects: anything and everything that anyone who got out managed to get out _with_.

"It's not much, is it?"

Fionnghal followed at a distance.

"No," she agreed.

The cottontail stopped at a certain pile. He dug out a small bauble: a polished opal stone, or at least half of one. It was rent at its center, broken into a jagged chunk. This break looked extremely old. Asher smiled as he closed his fist around the stone.

"At least there are _some _things, right?"

Fionnghal looked to one side, sneering.

"M'quelo... I guess he was right, after all..."

"Our civvys _are _safe, now—"

"Depends on your definition, doesn't it?"

Asher shrugged.

"Granted, we do have to figure out how to go on from here, yes. And our engineers... _that _loss is a blow..."

Fionnghal nodded.

"We'll always have Spindlespire, once she turns up—"

"Fi, there's no evidence she made it out—"

The rat shook her head, smiling.

"No, she'll turn up, Ash. Just trust me on that."

The cottontail shrugged.

"M'quelo's been organizing the civvies since the evac. Well, as best he _can_, at least. Our first priority is getting the hell out of the Thallomoor. Once the Delts have finished leveling the complex they'll be at our throats again, I should think."

Fionnghal nodded absently. Just then Brady lumbered into view, swinging around a gnarled tree.

"Asher: M'quelo could use some help dealing with the civvys."

The cottontail nodded. He motioned for Fionnghal to precede him, but then Brady tapped her shoulder.

"Oh, and Fionnghal: I've got Thasdesch waiting at the tent, like you asked."

Asher looked back at the rat quizzically.

"Something going on, spy-wise?" He asked.

"No, I just need to consult with him about something. It's probably unimportant."

Asher's brow ticked ever so slightly, broadcasting his skepticism clearly.

"By all means," he waved a paw.

When Fionnghal ducked into the makeshift tent she reeled, choking on the smoky air inside. But then Thadesch did likewise, wrinkling his nose over the pipe in his mouth.

"Woo! Dear me: what a fetid scent! Respectfully, of course, but by all that's sacred and holy you should _bathe _yourself, Fionnghal. All that blood's likely to set into your fur, permanently!"

"Three things, Thadesch: it already _has_, and I quite _like_ it."

"Those are two—"

The rat bared her teeth.

"And if you don't put out that pipe right now I'll be adding _your _bloodto my coat!"

Ever the wise one, Thadesch put out his pipe in short order.

"Curious you calling on the spymaster, now," the toad said. "I'd have thought you have bigger concerns, at present—"

"We've got a traitor in _Filigree_, Thadesch—"

The toad nodded.

"Mmm. I head. Kakkari Nez. Improbable, that. I, for one, didn't see it coming—"

Fionnghal held up a hand.

"I'm not talking about Nez, here. I'm talking about someone else; there's _another _traitor. And they're still hidden."

"What makes you think so?"

"It was something I overhead in the complex: something that Tatu said to the Dame commander while I was—"

"Captured?"

"_Disabled_," Fionnghal sneered. "It makes me think we're not done rooting out all our turncoats."

"So, these additional traitors—"

The rat shook her head.

"Not plural. It would be one traitor," she replied. "Only _one_."

The toad leaned back on his stump, nodding. He crossed his arms.

"Doubtless you've heard how _I _escaped the complex?"

The rat nodded.

"I suppose I'll be your prime suspect—"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Not you, Thadesch. You're a spymaster; you're _supposed _to be able to walk through walls with impunity. Also, I seriously doubt that you'd jeopardize our little 'arrangement'..."

"Then who?" The toad asked.

Fionnghal shrugged, looking to one side.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?"

The toad narrowed his eyes, smiling.

"Interesting," he cooed.

"What?"

"You don't _want _me to know who it is you suspect—"

"Can you make any headway on this or not?"

"More than you might think." Thadesch nodded. "I was able to escape the complex thanks to a certain contact I have in the Delta Tribe Elites. It's a fellow that goes by 'Ground Master'."

"The bastard could have warned you about the attack," Fionnghal muttered.

"Oh, but the Elites mobilized from the hip, you see, all in response to Tatu's unauthorized action with the Delta Tribe regulars. There was no time for him to find my ear in advance, you see."

"And?"

"He _did _find my ear recently, though. I managed to get a transmitter up and running early this morning, and he had a coded message for me."

"What did it say?"

"Just that he wants to meet, and that it has something to do with information about the complex attack. No mention of any 'traitors', mind you. But the Ground Master is a cagy sort: he wouldn't broadcast sensitive information like that even in a coded message."

"It'd have to be face-to-face," Fionnghal nodded.

"_If _he gets back to me with a time, and a location..."

"Keep me posted," Fionnghal nodded. She lifted the tent flap and stepped outside, but then paused.

"Thadesch..."

"Mmm?"

"Keep _only _me posted."

The toad again smiled.

"How _very _interesting!" He cooed.

Fionnghal wandered through the main civilian campsite. Chaos was slowly settling into order, although frayed nerves dominated the day. She found Asher in short order.

"M'quelo's out with a small party, scouting the woods beyond," he said. "_I _wouldn't do that, mind you, but I suppose life's a little easier when you're a lethally venomous critter locked-up inside a nigh-impenetrable suit, huh?"

"Oh, I think that would take all the fun out of life," Fionnghal smirked. "Dying's part of the challenge, isn't it?"

"I would have said _living_, myself..."

Panicked screams brought the pair to their feet; they raced across camp, coming to the edge of the Thallomoor's barren fields. Across the way, some 100 yards along the moonscape, the gleam of bodies in battle gear pierced the midmorning haze. Fionnghal strained her eyes: there were three figures out there, standing abreast, one of them grossly larger than the others. She turned to Asher.

"What: are you keeping me in suspense? What do those lovely little lapine eyes see, Ash?"

"Two warthogs," he answered. "And, at center..." the cottontail strained his. He scowled. "It's an _armadillo_."

The three interlopers began a slow, ordered walk forward. Asher and Fionnghal exchanged glances.

"Well," the rat said, "do you really want to live forever?"

They rounded-up Brady, and then the three of them approached Tatu and his entourage near the middle of the fallow field. Tatu stopped short. He brandished his long, serrated dagger, and then made a great show of handing it off to one subordinate. He then continued forward, alone and unarmed.

Asher produced his sawn-off, and Fionnghal her sword. They dumped their weapons off on Brady, who fumbled with them while shaking his head.

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to go ahead and recommend _against_ doing this, mom and dad—"

"Shut the hell up, Brady," Fionnghal muttered.

She and Asher walked forward, nearly lock-step, until they were face-to-face with the grizzled armadillo. Tatu first acknowledged the cottontail.

"It's good to see you again, Ash—"

"_Spare _me, please." The cottontail didn't sound even remotely annoyed, only cold.

"Oddly enough, that _is _my plan, in a way. You will all surrender yourselves to Delta Tribe, come _willingly_, and quietly, accompany us to the Dolamiram—"

Fionnghal snaled.

"Before or _after_ I cut your damn head off, Tat?"

Tatu grinned.

"You were never a diplomat, were you, Fi? Never much a _leader_, either, for that matter—"

Asher crossed his arms.

"We _will _resist you, Tatu—"

"And you will lose," the armadillo shrugged. "This forest isn't a shield, Ash: it's a flimsy blanket. Maybe it makes you _feel _secure, but for all its nooks and crannies it's no impediment to our forces. Let me be clear to both of you: there is _nothing_ standing between you and oblivion. Except for _me_, that is. And my offer's fading fast..."

More shouts sounded behind Asher and Fionnghal; the pair turned, alert, and noticed the sea of civilians far behind them parting. A figure emerged from them: spiky blue, and scowling.

Sonic approached the group, passing Brady without a word. Tatu's escorts raised their weapons, cocking them. The hedgehog stopped, the emerald around his neck burning with pink fire. He looked directly at Tatu, cocking his brow. The hedgehog's iron eyes didn't betray an ounce of fear, nor any other emotion, for that matter.

The armadillo scowled; he motioned for his escorts to lower their weapons, after which Sonic joined the group, walking right between Asher and Fionnghal. He came within a foot of Tatu's face.

"Despite everything else you've done today, Sonic, I have no cause against you," Tatu said. "Go off and play with your wild dogs and owls. Leave this matter to the _tribes_."

"There're no tribe. I'd love to leave you all to play together, if you weren't playing _here_." The hedgehog shook his head. "This is the Thallomoor, and it's _my _traverse. The cause of action is _mine_, Tat, against anyone who disrupts the order of these woods—"

"Don'ttempt me, Speedster!"

"How many warm bodies you got out there, by the way?" Sonic smirked. "Fifty? A hundred? Maybe a few more?" Sonic leaned closer to the armadillo, his black eyes drawn like razors. He rolled his next words out in a crisp, deadly staccato.

"Do... you... think... that's... _enough_?"

Tatu took a step back; he compensated by trying to scowl, haughtily.

But it didn't work.

His façade broken, the armadillo chuckled, looking over at Asher and Fionnghal.

"'No tribes here', huh?" He shook his head. "Ridiculous. Well, more's the pity, but if that's how it all has to be..."

He rejoined his escort, preparing to leave. Before doing so he turned one last time, looking at Sonic, Fionnghal, and Asher in turn.

"Let me think: 'Thallomoor', huh? _Thallo_…moor. Well, that's 'th', isn't it?" His eyes narrowed to slits.

"That'll be '_Theta'_." He snarled. "Won't it?"

Fionnghal stepped forward.

"Damn it! We're _not _a tribe, Tatu!"

"Well, you _won't_ be. Not for long, anyway..."

The armadillo stalked off, followed by his warthog escorts.

Fionnghal crossed her arms, fuming. Asher, meanwhile, turned to Sonic, giving a perfunctory nod.

"Thank you, Sonic. And, well, I know you're not happy to see—"

"My 'happiness' doesn't matter. And every single one of you is trespassing on this traverse—"

"We're not planning on a long-term stay, Sonic," Fionnghal said.

"I know," he growled. "'Cause the lot of you will be gone by sunup, tomorrow—"

"Sonic: we have civvies, here. _Wounded_ civvies, too!"

"That's why I'm not kicking you all to the curb immediately."

Asher shook his head.

"Sonic: be reasonable—"

"No. I feel like being _compassionate_," he growled. "And on that count, you've all tapped me dry. You stay here past my deadline and you'll damn-well see how 'reasonable' I can be."

He looked directly at Fionnghal.

"_Sunup_. _Tomorrow_."

And, to punctuate that point, Sonic departed from them at a full-tilt, sending both Asher and Fionnghal toppling to the ground in a cloud of dust and rock. After they recovered, slowly rising to their feet, the pair exchanged glances.

"He always _was_ the expert negotiator, wasn't he?" Asher said.

VII.

They risked making campfires that night. Fionnghal sat alone before hers, huddled up near a particularly large tree. She struggled to ward off the urge to sleep, assisted by the sweet smell of wild meat roasting over her sickly little fire.

Quinn approached the fire slowly, gnawing on the remains of a cooked potato he'd taken from some other group's fire.

Fionnghal smiled.

"Well, what do you say, huh? Know any more about who you are?"

Quinn shrugged.

"I like potatoes," he held up the half-eaten potato. "And I kinda like puns. Other than that?" The boy shook his head, kneeling opposite the rat. When the scent of roasting meat hit his nostrils he felt his gums turn to water; Fionnghal must have noticed that sudden glint in the boy's eyes.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I forgot _that_ about humans, too..."

She removed her spit, gingerly pulling off pieces of meat with a crude set of tongs. She handed Quinn a slice.

"Us omnivores gotta stick together," she smirked. "We're a rare breed, in these parts..."

"Is that why you're sitting here, alone?" Quinn asked.

Fionnghal dropped the smile, staring down at her feet. She shook her head.

"Not entirely. I'm not feeling particularly 'communal', tonight." She looked up at the boy. "You aren't either, huh?"

"Well, things aren't exactly _welcoming_ for me, here, you know."

Fionnghal scoffed.

"Hell, by now half the camp's gotta know all about the stunts you pulled back in the compound. You should be a hero to them—"

"I'm a _human_ to them," Quinn answered. "Besides, this was all really about me in the first place, wasn't it? That stuff today: that was just me trying to clean up my _own_ mess..."

"It's a touch more complicated than that, kiddo," Fionnghal shook her head. "But I can see why that would make you feel isolated."

The boy stared at his own toes, nodding.

"Maybe it just makes me feel a little..._ Qui'ntroshe_," he said.

Fionnghal scoffed.

"Well: yes. I'd say that describes you pretty well. What: did Brady call you that?"

The boy nodded.

"But he didn't tell me what it meant..."

"It's less embarrassing than _Qui'nloesh_, that's for sure."

Quinn craned his neck.

"Soooo…?"

"'_Fearless'_," Fionnghal said. "It means 'fearless'. And for what it's worth, I guess you qualify."

"I'm not the one covered in other people's blood, though..."

Fionnghal looked to one side.

"There's a difference between having bloodlust and having _boldness_. I'm not brave, Quinn. In fact, a lot of people died today because I was too afraid to do what was necessary..."

Fionnghal met the boy's eyes, but then instantly looked away.

"I saw the tapes from medical," Quinn said. "I know about your discussion. About _me_."

"I thought you might."

"I know they wanted to kill me. But you didn't. So, for what it's worth: thanks—"

"I should have," Fionnghal shook her head. "Kakkari was right, just like M'quelo was right about evacuating the civvies. It was the right decision: condemn one life to save gods know how many. I was weak, and I was a bad leader..."

Quinn said nothing as the rat spoke. Fionnghal stared into the fire, still shaking her head.

"None of this is about _you_, alright? It isn't _your_ fault. You're a wonderful little guy, Quinn— _Qui'ntroshe_, through-and-through. No: this mess is because _I'm_ a coward, that's all. And if I weren't? If I was strong enough to _lead_? All our casualties would be alive right now; we'd still have a place to live. You'd be dead, and I'd have the weight of your blood on my hands..."

She looked up at the boy, smiling wistfully.

"And I'd carry that weight— _I _could be 'fearless', too."

"You don't really sound _weak_ to me," Quinn said. "You just sound like you're not a monster—"

"You don't know me," Fionnghal scowled. "Anyway, in a world like ours, maybe it's only a monster who can be counted on to chase the boogeymen away."

The rat returned her gaze to the fire, knees curled up against her chest. She paid little more attention to Quinn, and after a time the boy got to his feet. He left the glow of her fire, wandering amongst the fringes of the camp. He paced aimlessly for over an hour. Finally he came to a dark bank of trees. He peered through them, gazing at the Thallomoor moonscape beyond.

"It seems like liberty, doesn't it?"

The boy jumped; Myrtle stood beside him, her hands clasped together.

"But I don't think it is," she continued. "Out there you'd be all alone. Maybe you think that's better, but—"

"I'm not safe here, Myrtle," Quinn shook his head. "I _can't_ be..."

"But out there you'll be hunted—"

"And in here I'm just a bargaining chip." He looked up at the glider. "_Filigree_ is just as likely to kill me as Delta Tribe."

"At least here you've got some people who don't _want _you dead..."

The boy scoffed, but then he slowly smiled.

"You know: that's actually one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to me since I woke up." He shrugged. "Whatever. I know you won't let me run. And I don't have a net handy this time, do I?"

Myrtle shook her head.

"I'm not responsible for you, Quinn. I'm just a civilian. All I want to do is give you advice. You feel alone, and I understand that, but, really, you don't _have _to be alone."

The pair exchanged glances, smiling.

Tree branches rustled overhead. Quinn barely had a chance to look up, and he was rewarded with a pointed boot to his face. Both he and Myrtle fell to the ground; an impossibly tall, thin shadow kicked the boy while he was down, and then it turned its attention to Myrtle. The sugar glider barely got to her feet when the shadow slammed her head against a nearby tree.

It tackled Quinn, holding him on the ground as he struggled. Only then did the boy get a good look at his assailant: it was a damselfly, but not like the others Quinn had seen outside the _Filigree_ compound.

This one had two wriggling stubs on her back where the wings should be.

The boy opened his mouth to scream, but a damp, sweet-smelling rag covered his face. He sputtered and coughed, clawing the air blindly. After two deep breaths he could feel a harsh tingle in his fingers and toes; his body grew numb.

But then Myrtle was there; she knocked the wingless damselfly to the ground and struggled to get Quinn to his feet. That was beyond the boy's power, however, and he quickly landed on his knees, head against the earth, rear in the air.

"Quinn! Quinn: _run_!"

The sugar glider again tried to force the boy up.

And the wingless damselfly didn't take kindly to that.

The blade whistled through the air; it made a kind of 'sloshing' noise as it passed Myrtle's belly.

In his daze Quinn felt the heat of that wound. There was a certain stink to it, too, and it scorched the air, like a warm breath on a cold winter's day.

"N— _nooooo_!" He screamed.

Myrtle set one hand over her stomach, genteelly, as if she were pressing out a small crease in her shirt.

And not trying to hold her guts inside her body.

She landed on her knees, breathing hard, and then collapsed onto her back. She didn't even scream. Not once. Quinn tried to scream for her, but that sweet-smelling rag was back over his face.

He didn't have the wherewithal to struggle anymore. The fumes took him, and in a matter seconds he was gone.


	6. The Fangs of Wild Beasts

"The Fangs of Wild Beasts"

I.

His feet met soft ground. There was a smell: mold and fresh-tilled soil. It was bitter rot more than anything, but mingled with the promise of freshness— goodness— to come somewhere in the springtime.

_Life_. That was it. It smelled of life.

A branch snapped behind him; he spun about.

A coy smile met his face.

And then _he_ smiled.

She leaned against a tree, skinny arms crossed. Playful eyes beamed out under a tuft of electric pink quills. Styled needles ruled her scraggily head, running all the way down her back. And parts beyond, to boot.

And he knew _that _for a fact.

"Quick of you..." she cooed. Her lips moved. He could understand the words, but there was no noise.

Her smile grew wider. She pushed off her tree, moving backward in a slow, elegant pirouette.

He smiled again, walking forward unhurriedly, closing the distance between them. Then her slow pirouette turned into a brisk walk. She turned her head towards him.

"_So_ quick of you..."

Her walk turned into a jog; those tight-bunched quills shivered and swayed as she moved.

He matched pace, his grin spreading.

The trees passed quickly; her jog became a run, and then a sprint.

"Quick! Quick! Quick!"

His muscles ached; his lungs burned, heaving with fire. He strained himself, dashing through the maze of trees.

"Where..."

He began sputtering.

"Where did..."

His breaths became labored screams. Cold sweat exploded along his face and trunk.

"Why?"

He rounded a large tree; she was there, facing him, eyes locked onto his.

Her hand outstretched.

He reached out.

"Why?"

Everything stopped. Their bodies lay frozen in the moment; their eyes screamed. Brilliant white light flared up behind her. There was blinding pain...

And her eyes? Even more. There was that helplessness there— and pain, too— but more. There was something worse. No, it wasn't pain, but worse.

_Hurt_.

Her lips moved, and when she spoke her voice echoed in his head:

"Why weren't you fast enough?"

Their fingers— inches apart— might've taken hours to meet. But that column of light had other plans. When it reached out with its embrace— lovingly, tenderly boiling her flesh, delicately charring her bones— Sonic screamed.

He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed.

And that scream made no noise.

II.

His eyes flipped open; he caught a sound in his throat. Only an ambivalent grunt escaped his lips.

Misshapen candles dotted the cavern, most resting on small shelves carved out of the rock. Their wan light cast shadows about, beaming off the hedgehog's stern quills as he rose up off the rock slab at the cavern center.

Tails' computer monitors cast more light about. The little fox's gloved fingers clacked along his keyboard as he worked. Sonic cracked his neck. He looked down at his legs: a heap of equipment— jeweler's screwdrivers, a large wrench and a small acetylene torch— lay strewn about. He twisted his left leg, wincing. The three QEDs in his metal brace sparkled to life, glowing with a soft white luster. A coating of crusty blood graced two large screws sticking out his shinbone.

The little fox finished his work. He turned to face the hedgehog. Sonic scowled at him, pointing at his bloodied leg.

"Ow," he growled.

"Tibial anchors showed movement. It was .162 degrees. Minor, but needed resetting."

Sonic brushed his hand over the brace on his right leg, moving his fingers along the orbs of light.

"And the QEDs?"

The little fox shrugged.

"Quantum Effects Discriminators show 12.02 times better than perfect efficiency as a whole system. Down .002, last check." The fox scratched at the bandage on his forehead, his face set in an adorable little grimace. "Statistically insignificant," he muttered.

Sonic nodded, hopping off the slab. He shifted his weight around, grunting.

"Alright, then."

Sonic nodded at the little fox, scratching the kit's bandaged forehead as he walked by. Tails tolerated this. The fox went to work boxing up his monitors and his tools into a small yellow pack. Sonic moved for the cavern exit, but then he stopped short.

"What about deterioration, Tails?"

The kit looked back up at him.

"14.02 percent. That's serum analysis _only_, but consistent with projected rate. Of course ultimate rate's determined by _use_, so—"

The hedgehog grunted, roughly cutting off the little fox. He noticed a bright, shining piece of metal lying in the corner. It was the y-shaped 'bone' he'd yanked out of Houndstooth's throat from the day before. Sonic held the device up, eyeing the small circular QED sitting at the juncture.

"Houndstooth will be missing this. It's probably not too happy with _me _right now. Well, at least I've got a spare QED, now..."

"Size and power output not practical for leg motion," Tails shook his head. "That kind of QED wouldn't be able to 'phase' an adult biped's leg. Juvenile, either. Any objected affected would need to be small."

"How small?" Sonic asked.

Tails shrugged.

"Smaller than the circumference of the Houndstooth creature's trachea, I suppose. Six centimeters, no bigger, I think."

Sonic scoffed, roughly depositing the device on the floor.

"_Very _practical," he grumbled.

He left the cavern without another word and was greeted by a moody predawn haze. Mist hung over the cliffs, obscuring the twisted tract of the Thallomoor far below.

Sonic welcomed the rising light. He did _not _welcome a certain other visitor loping up the crags to meet him.

"What the hell do you want, Pew?"

"_Tails_. I need his 'hands'—"

Sonic gripped Fionnghal's shoulder, pushing the rat back away from his cavern.

"We're all done; he'll be out shortly. Where's the fire?"

"Quinn's gone. _Taken_. Delts grabbed him in the middle of the night."

Sonic wandered over to the rocky path.

"Well, that didn't take long, did it? Bang-up job on the security—"

"Cut the snark, Sonic; he was taken from _your _woods, you know."

The hedgehog smirked.

"Don't play that card, Pew. The way I see it, I'm evicting you all from here, anyway. If the Delts saw fit to subtract one problem from my roster, so be it."

"And if _blood _was spilled, Sonic?"

Fionnghal crossed her arms. Sonic's face was noncommittal, but he waved a dismissive hand.

"Just desserts, Pew. If you all can dish it out— and you _can_— you sure as hell better be able to take it, too."

"And if it was _civvy _blood?"

"That just means you're not doing your job, doesn't it?"

"Sonic, these are the Delta _Elites_, and Quinn is a _human_—"

"Hadn't noticed—"

"You know where they're taking him. You know _who _they're taking him to!"

"Excellent point: that's another perfectly good reason for me _not _to get involved."

Tails emerged from the cavern, struggling under the weight of his gear. Fionnghal watched him approach, and then she looked back at Sonic.

"It's funny, your attitude—"

"You were never a good judge of comedy, Pew—"

"For some reason I thought you might be kinda sweet on the little human."

Sonic shot the rat a withering stare. He scoffed, but the rat continued:

"You _did_ save his life back at the complex—"

"Mostly inadvertent. Oh, and I saved yours, too, as I recall. You're welcome, by the way—"

"How's your sloth lowspeak, Sonic? As I remember it's quite good, isn't it?"

"You know what languages I speak."

"So, do you think Quinn really _is _'fearless', Sonic?"

The hedgehog's quill-studded head turned; he looked at Fionnghal with dagger eyes. The rat stepped toward him.

"Because he _won't _be so 'fearless' when he's face-to-face with the Eggman. You _know_ that."

A small grin formed at the corners of Sonic's mouth; the hedgehog snickered.

"Something funny?" Fionnghal crossed her arms.

Sonic nodded.

"Yup. The idea that youactually give a damn about that juvenile. We both know what you're really worried about: Eggman just _can't _be allowed to get his hands on another human, can he? You just _couldn't _allow that, could you?"

"Frankly? No, I can't. That would be bad for _everyone_—"

"Not for Eggman, though."

Fionnghal scrunched her face, glaring at Sonic. She bobbed her head, as if conceding a valid point.

"I'm not asking you to come with me, Sonic—"

"Come with you? What? You'regoing after him?"

"To the Dolamiram, specifically. We picked up strong heat signatures out there, so we know his ship's in the area..."

Sonic arched a brow.

"You're talking about the _Viper_? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?"

"Frightened for me, Sonic?"

The hedgehog again shook his head, walking off.

"If only because you're too stupid to be frightened for yourself," he said. "Whatever. If nothing else, it makes it that much easier to evict all these trespassers without you around—"

Fionnghal followed him.

"You're not evicting _anyone_, Sonic—"

"My woods, my right. You gonna try to stop me? You can't even corral a 10-year-old—"

"He's more like 12," Fionnghal growled.

"He's more like 'too much for you to handle'. And I'm _worse_, by far. You've got nothing on me."

"I've got _Tails_," Fionnghal motioned to the little fox, who still struggled down the path with his luggage. "These little visits from him over the past few years have been _complimentary_, Sonic. You move against my civvies and you can kiss all that free maintenance on your braces goodbye."

"Doesn't matter," Sonic grumbled. "Don't need it—"

"That a fact?"

"I can always figure it out on my own—"

"You've never been mechanically-inclined, Sonic. And when you consider the fact that one small maladjustment to those QEDs might blow this entire mountaintop apart and vaporize half the Thallomoor, well—"

"I'll make do," Sonic snarled.

"Oh, yes. You're just the peak of self-efficiency, aren't you?"

Fionnghal stopped walking.

"What's your deterioration rate, now? Tell me _that_."

The hedgehog stopped; he didn't answer for several seconds.

"7 percent," he said. "_Stabilized_, too."

"Mmm-hmm," Fionnghal tilted her head, eyes narrowed. "I guess that would make you the peak of _health_, too, wouldn't it?"

"_Doesn't _it?" Sonic crossed his arms.

Tails finally caught up to the adults. Fionnghal looked like she might say something more to the hedgehog, but she merely shook her head. She looked down at Tails, who at the moment was busy surveying the erratic flight path of a butterfly, and snapped her fingers in front of his face. The little fox started, first going cross-eyed to look at the fingers in front of him, and then he looked up at the rat.

"C'mon, Tails. Let's go."

"'Kay..."

"Let's talk abdominal anatomy."

The fox nodded, bending his knees rhythmically as he spoke:

"Avian, Amphibian, Equestrian, Felidaen..."

"_Marsupial_," Fionnghal again snapped her fingers in front of his face. "We're talking right and left lower quadrants of the belly..."

Sonic watched the pair depart. He grumbled to himself. These _Filigree _survivors were trouble enough for him, and that human juvenile seemed to be a _magnet _for it. But now there was the Eggman, too. Sonic knew all too well what _he _wanted. And to think: what Eggman could possibly get out of that human boy...

Sonic's thoughts turned to that smug little face staring him down on the cold Thallomoor moonscape: stern, passionate eyes challenging him. There was something incredibly stupid there.

But, then again, there was also at least _something _to appreciate, too...

"Well, tough luck, little boy."

Did it _have _to be, though?

Sonic shook his head.

"What the hell do you want from me, Pew?" He grumbled.

Happily, he knew what action he hadto take: none at all. His was the Law of the Speedster, wasn't it? And none of these wretches camping out in the Thallomoor were members of _his _tribe, were they? Nope, not a one. True, he might have had legitimate cause to intervene back in the _Filigree _complex— what with a live-fire brawl raging right on his doorstep, so to speak— but this was different, wasn't it?

"Of course it is," Sonic nodded.

Certainly. Cards were being dealt very quickly all around him, but Sonic wasn't even sitting at the table. None of this was for him.

"Leave all to the Eggman what is the Eggman's," the hedgehog whispered.

This was a _tribal_ thing, after all.

With that settled Sonic stretched his legs, relishing the feel of his braces. His QEDs responded with a healthy white glow, and then he tore off on his morning patrol, vanishing in a blur of white light and noise.

III.

"What?" Asher cocked his head.

"The Dolamiram," Fionnghal repeated.

The rat busily bundled her sword and her gear into a backpack. Asher lay on the opposite side of the small tent, shirtless, ream upon ream of tight bandaging cinched over his chest. The cottontail wagged his head, baffled.

"You actually think we're in _any _condition to take on—"

"Not we," Fionnghal shook her head. "You've gotta rest-up those busted ribs, don't you? Otherwise you might run out of breath to criticize me with."

"And that gunshot wound in your shoulder's just gonna magically heal, Fi? You're not a chameleon, you know. Even your species takes time to recoup."

The rat smiled. She brandished _Curtainrod_ and activated its QED, effortlessly swinging the sword through the air.

"Good thing I'm a lefty, isn't it? Also, 'my species' is _tons_ heartier than a cottontail like you, Ash. No offense, of course..."

"Malarkey, my Mistress!" Brady sauntered into the tent, shaking his head. "You poor brown rats fell off the evolutionary tree and hit every bad-gene branch on the way down. Whole dang species is a living _refutation _of the law of averages. What a frikkin' cluster of bad-luck!" He snickered.

Fionnghal glared at the sloth, tilting her head slowly. It was enough to make Brady reassess his words.

"Uh... but, of course, well..._Fionnghal_ here is a veryhealthy brown rat, isn't she?"

"You mean to say I'm the best of the worst?"

"Yeah. No, wait... hmmm..."

"Forget that," the rat tapped her sword. "Let's talk about carnage, shall we?"

"As in?"

"Expedition. _Dolamiram_. Danger. High probability of conflict. Pointy things going into squishy parts; blunt stiff smacking into skulls. That sort of thing."

"Sounds vaguely suicidal," Brady smiled. "So, the objective is 'carnage'?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"The objective is _Quinn_. Eggman took him; we can't let him keep him."

"Well, as your chief of security I have to argue against 'vaguely suicidal' actions," Brady shrugged. "But given what those Delts did to poor little Myrtle, well—"

"So it's revenge, is it?" Asher said. "You're all likely to get yourselves killed."

"There are risks in everything, of course," Fionnghal said. "That's another reason you should stay, Ash. M'quelo and his scouting party still aren't back from their survey of the deep woods, yet. With you here hopefully our civvies won't get all out of sorts."

"They'll still believe that we have a cohesive command structure, you mean?"

"That's at least one better than a fairytale, isn't it?" Brady smirked.

The tent flap suddenly parted. It was so quick that Fionnghal alerted, her hand deftly gripping her sword's hilt. Thadesch wobbled into the tent, moving surprisingly fast for an obese toad.

"Eh!" Brady gripped the toad's shoulders, pushing him back. "Hold up, Thadesch. They didn't invite _you _to this party."

The toad shot Fionnghal a withering stare, his bulbous yellow eyes afire. Fionnghal quickly motioned for Brady to let-up, allowing the toad to confront her, which he did, storming right up to her face. He made a growling, croaking nose— rather an unpleasant thing— with his fat face inches from hers.

"_Fionnghal_!" He snarled.

The rat took him by the shoulder, leading him outside. Brady and Asher watched this exchange with curiosity, but soon the rat and toad were alone.

"I know you're upset—"

"You _incompetent_ rat!" He hissed.

"You need to control yourself, Thadesch," Fionnghal led him far away from the tent.

"How in blazes could you allow—"

"I didn't 'allow' anything Thadesch. And I need you to focus! You've got to get out to your meeting with the Ground Master—"

"Focus? You're daft as well as incompetent!"

Fionnghal stood in front of the toad, gripping both his shoulders. She stared him down, speaking calmly and clearly.

"Thadesch: our arrangement hasn't changed. I don't think it has, anyway—"

"Daft _bit—_"

Fionnghal's grip on his shoulders tightened.

"Listen to me: I've got Tails— the son of James Prower— doing surgery right now. Think about that! Do you understand? And I can still make up this little 'inconvenience' to you however you'd like. We can talk about that some other time. But our _arrangement_, Thadesch? Tell me: is that dead, or alive?"

The toad looked down at his feet, eyes softening. He licked his puffy lips.

"Thadesch? Our 'arrangement': it is still _alive_, isn't it?"

The toad sighed.

"Yes, Fionnghal," he nodded. "It is. Bloody _barely—_"

"Good. Now listen: I'm gonna lead a party into Delta Tribe's territory."

"Tired of living, have you?"

"It'll be a _stealth _party. Everyone else thinks I'm off my nut— that I'm gonna launch a general offensive against Eggman— but honestly I'm not that stupid."

"Oh, no?"

"I've got a trick or two up my sleeve."

"Enough to survive?"

The rat shrugged.

"Hopefully enough to even the odds, at least."

"And how does this meeting with my contact play into your plans?"

"If you can't come back here and tell me who our traitor is then we're splitting _Filigree_ up. It won't be able to survive if that turncoat isn't identified."

The toad perched his lips.

"Really? Not at _all_?"

Fionnghal nodded.

"I see." Thadesch reciprocated the nod, rubbing his fat chin. "Oh, indeed, I think do..."

The rat stalked off to finish her preparations, but Thadesch called out to her:

"Fionnghal— given that _you're _the one whoneeds this traitor's name when you get back—what am I to do with those 50/50 odds of yours?"

The rat shook her head.

"I _will _be back here, Thadesch."

She predicted the scrunched face of the toad as he puzzled over her words. Fionnghal humored his curiosity:

"I _have _to come back, so I'll be sure to nudge those odds just a little _further_ in my favor..."

III.

The shapes were formless, _faceless _to him. They moved about haphazardly, or at least in some order he couldn't begin to predict. Quinn stumbled through the mist, hesitant, each step of his tennis shoes an ungodly loud clack on unseen ground.

He was alone. He didn't _want_ to be alone.

The shapes around him took form with each step: a rabbit here, a toad there. Beavers, sugar gliders, wolves. And jackalopes, too.

Honestly: _jackalopes_. What was up with _that_, anyway?

They were still faceless, but no longer just formless blobs. Quinn was no longer alone. A tightness in his chest welled up. It cut his breaths into tiny, panicked gasps.

There were still no faces in that messy throng, but now there were eyes.

And every eye turned to meet Quinn's face, leering out at him, peeking out of those unnatural, faceless bodies.

He spun around in jerky circles, gaping at the strange creatures. Saltwater bled from his skin, cascading down his face in a cold, electric sweat. Every gasp he made echoed like a wolf's cry. As he stumbled about that cold scene he felt his back bump into something warm: the heat of a body.

Quinn spun about. This face was fully-formed. And more than that: it was _warm_, smiling with affection. Beautiful blue eyes beamed out under a tuft of brown fur. A pearl white smile cut through the cold around him like a blowtorch.

Fionnghal rested one hand on Quinn's shoulder. That shiny, piercing grin of hers spread.

It was enough to make Quinn smile in response.

And then he gasped, sputtering.

The noise wasn't nearly as much as he thought it should be— as much as he thought it _ought_ to be. The blade sunk clean through his chest, passing neatly between ribs, his lung beyond, and the meat of his back.

Pretty dramatic, actually.

So shouldn't that kind of thing make more noise?

Fionnghal's smile devolved into a crooked sneer. Quinn stared down at her blade, eyes quivering, and then back up at the rat. Fionnghal gently rested one paw over the boy's forehead, cradling his crown ever so gently.

And then she pushed back as hard as she could.

This time Quinn's expectations were satisfied: the blade did make a noise when it came _out_.

And it was horrible.

And, unlike going in, this time there was pain. The boy's eyes filled with blood.

And then everything else was red.

IV.

His body started, shuddering involuntarily, as if he were sitting in a chair tipped too far back. When he tried to leap to his feet, however, he was met with resistance. Instantly he was again seated, his numb body resting against a cold metal seat.

A vicious floodlight hammered his eyes. It clouded any features from the room around him. Quinn's jumpsuit was unzipped down to his navel, baring the upper half of his body. Silver eyes leered at him out of the darkness; a leather-clad arm pulled away from the boy, bearing a glistening syringe in its hand.

"Who..."

Quinn tried raising his arms up, but again he was met with resistance. Sleek metal sleeves dangled from the ceiling above him, ending at his wrists in a set of padded cuffs. Every sudden movement of his arms was met with a peremptory tug from the devices. It seemed that he was free to move about at least a little bit, but any quick movement from any part of his body was a definite no-no.

The silver eyes surveyed the boy, cold and emotionless. Soon the dark figure disappeared from view. Quinn sat alone for some time, dazed, fighting nausea in his throat and wincing under the powerful floodlight. Mercifully that light cut-out, revealing the scenery beyond.

An ovoid room surrounded him, cast in a cruel metallic hue. To either side around him were banks of consoles set into the walls, but the largest workstations loomed across from him. The wall there was different: more like a massive blast door than a wall, bisected with a long narrow slit running its length for at least ten meters. Even if he were standing Quinn wouldn't be able to look out that window.

A loud clank brought the boy's heart into his throat: a hidden doorway clamped open on the far side of the room. Black boots stood in the shadows, and a figure loomed outside the lights of the room. Panicked, Quinn feigned sleep, resting his head to one side of his chair, lips parted lazily.

And, oh, how he willed them not to tremble.

The room behind the figure was dimly lit. There was a pink curtain eclipsing most of it. A strange sound permeated the room: some kind of labored wailing noise. It was faint and hoarse, something like malfunctioning scuba gear.

The figure steeped through that door, which then clanked shut behind him. The man was tall—at least six feet with his boots— and ungodly lanky. At first Quinn thought there was something wrong with him, maybe some kind of disease, but the cruel, intense wrinkles of his face belied any weakness: of anything this man was, he was certainly _not_ sick.

His pate was bald, and it shone under the lights. Two tufts of milky red hair clung to either side of his head, like weeds desperately clinging to the side of a cliff. The rest of him was unremarkable, save for a moustache. And what a moustache! It was giant, _sprawling_, like the handlebars of an oversized bicycle. It was almost cartoonish, sculpted down with heavy wax, made as stern and as gaunt as the rest of that chiseled face: a cold and moody landscape.

The moustached man wandered by the consoles, over to the creature with the silver eyes. Quinn covertly followed him, one of his eyes half-open. For the first time he took note of the silver-eyed creature and discovered that it _wasn't _really a creature. Plates of dingy armor shrouded a body of rods and gears, much like a sculpture made of unpolished, beat-up brass. This thing wasn't a 'he' or a 'she', it was an '_it_'.

The thing was unlike anything Quinn had seen from the Delta Tribe invaders: with the possible exception of that giant metal monster— the one they called 'Houndstooth'— all those animals seemed to be at least partly _animal_, and maybe to varying degrees. That's to say they were all _alive_, and at some point they had all been as organic as the members of _Filigree_. But the thing now talking with the moustached man was unquestionably artificial, its body nothing but instruments, tubes and gears.

The android shook its head at one point, prompting the man to look back at Quinn briefly. Quinn could only hear snippets of their conversation. The man whispered in a cold, distant baritone; the machine answered in an artificial, lyrical voice.

"Not promising. Type is incongruous, and then there's the Rh factor..."

The man scowled.

"Plasma scrubbers, perhaps," he growled.

The android's head wagged. Its silver eyes weaved unnaturally.

"No. Crossmatching was positive, you see. I am sorry." The robot didn't sound particularly sorry.

The moustached man folded his arms. He stood that way for a time, his back to Quinn.

"And where did Bellesailes go off to?"

"She is staging on the surface, I'd imagine. With the other Dames—"

"Schedule her for surgery; get materials together for her prosthetics."

"About that: she is resistant to the idea of repairs—"

"Took a blow to the head, did she?"

"Not exactly. She believes that she failed you back at the compound, I think, and so—"

"I don't care about any of that," the man growled.

"Beg pardon. _She _does."

The man glared at the android, his teeth set on edge.

"Dames don't generally put honor above practicality, do they? What: does she think she's a wolf, now?"

The machine wagged its cylindrical head, eyes casting light all about.

"I'm sure I couldn't speculate—"

"But that doesn't seem to stop you from _trying_, does it?"

"No, I suppose not. Also, about Tatu's actions—"

The man wagged a finger.

"_Tatu_. Oh, I'll deal with him later. But, so long as the wolves don't learn that the regulars attacked that compound before our precious little ultimatum was sent, well, there should be little fallout."

"And if the wolves learn that their honor code was breached?"

"In that case I'll make soup out of that idiot armadillo's flesh," the man growled.

The gaunt man finally turned. He wandered over to Quinn, who still feigned sleep with all his might. Quinn felt a cold breath on his nose; he dared to crack one eyelid slightly open.

The eyes that met him sent a shiver through his spine. Black, cold marbles leered out around the scrunched white flesh of the man's face. These eyes weren't simply 'black'. They were 'rotted': dead orbs, not even carrying the normal 'life' of a pair of black eyes. There was something seriously wrong with them.

And that was quite the understatement.

Quinn shuddered, and despite his fervent wish the man noticed this. He smiled, his ridiculous moustache bristling. The man sauntered back over to his console, pausing briefly before he spoke.

"In their exploration they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man..."

The moustached man turned, putting his hands to his hips as he faced Quinn.

"In ancient days men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times we do much the same, but our heroes are fallen men of flesh and blood..."

The man again stepped towards Quinn. Each heavy, resounding clank of his black boots stabbed the boy's brain like daggers; Quinn gave up on his sleeping ruse and sat up, determined to meet the man's gaze head-on.

"Others will follow, and they will surely find their way home. Man's search will not be denied..."

The man leaned down, his face inches from Quinn's. The boy stared up at him defiantly as the man poked Quinn's naked sternum.

"But _these_ men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in their species' heart."

The man again stood, looming over the boy with folded arms.

"For every human being who looks up at the Rainbow in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind."

By now Quinn's brow was cocked. The boy licked his dry lips and managed a few words.

"You've got a 'corner' of Mobius, huh? Who _are _you?"

"You're in absolutely no position to ask questions, my boy."

Quinn gingerly stood up, mindful of the braces on his wrists. He held up the lower half of his jumpsuit, which was supported only by the bones of his waist.

"Aren't I a part of that whole 'brotherhood of man' thingy?"

The man scoffed. He produced a small remote control in one hand.

"You're certainly one to 'bind more tightly'..."

He pressed a button and instantly the metal sleeves yanked back on Quinn's wrists, dragging him into his chair. Quinn was about to provide a few four-letter protests against this treatment— as well as the man's ridiculous, pretentious speech— but then Quinn remembered something: strange words carved into the concrete back at the _Filigree _compound.

_Those _words were pretentious, too, weren't they?

"'Eggman'? You've _gotta _be Eggman, right?"

He smiled.

"I'm certainly not the milkman."

"So what: do you really like omelets, or—"

The man flicked Quinn's nose with his fingers. The boy recoiled, scowling.

"Any egg but _coddled_. Boiled, scrambled, basted, shirred..." He again tapped Quinn's sternum, grinning.

Quinn looked down at the finger on his chest, then back up at the man with an even darker scowl.

"And _poached_," the boy muttered.

"Hmm, an intelligent lad. That's good, because we're going to have an intelligent conversation. _You_, specifically, better have some very intelligent things to say." The Eggman took a few steps back. "And— to answer your question about the name— I have _many_ names. You must have learned that one from the locals..."

Quinn shook his head.

"Graffiti. Stuff your wolf thugs left on a wall back at the compound." Quinn looked off to one side, trying to remember the words. "'Feet slip, disaster nears'..."

The Eggman tilted his head, casually stroking his moustache.

"_Doom rushes_," he cooed. "The law I live by. The Second Law, anyway..."

Quinn blinked.

"What's the first?"

The Eggman shook his head.

"_Not_ so overly intelligent, I suppose."

"You killed people back at that compound_—_"

"_People_?" Eggman chuckled.

"You know what I mean," Quinn growled. "You're just a coward: you sucker-punched them!"

"Ah, I guess you think that the mean old human got in a cheap shot against all those 'Wind in the Willows' rejects. Well, I know a saying about geese and ganders, little boy; don't you? And trust me: I've felt the fangs of wild beasts as often as I could _ever _be said to have leveled a 'cheap shot' against anyone on this miserable excuse of a planet—"

"_Innocents _died because of you!"

"And you don't have any idea what that word means."

Quinn balled his cuffed fists, looking off to one side. His teeth ground together as he considered the man's nonchalant attitude toward murder. But then Quinn felt the corners of his mouth rise; he had to laugh a little.

"Something amuses you?" Eggman asked.

"Yeah: _you_. You're ridiculous: twirling that slimy moustache, laying down all this geeky pomp! You're something out of a Saturday morning cartoon: just some obviously-evil, bald-headed villain. All you need is a _cat_, for God's sake—"

Quinn was prepared to go on, but something Eggman did brought a chill to his blood: he smiled as the boy spoke. It was a crass, empty, yawning grin, spreading with each word from the boy's lips. And Quinn couldn't bear to make that hideous grin any wider, so silence ruled the air between them. Eventually the Eggman chuckled, shaking his head.

"Whether I shall turn out to be the villain of my own story, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, my _actions_ will show..." He turned away from the boy. "Cosmetics are irrelevant, child. And worse: _misleading_. And, by the way, I'm more a _dog_ person, myself. You're seen the Delta Elites, haven't you? They're so superior to the felines here on Mobius. They certainly put the '_can_' in 'canine', don't they?"

Quinn was staring at the floor; he'd been looking down, perplexed, ever since Eggman started speaking. When he looked back up his eyes were cold, confident slits.

"Well... you put the '_dick_' in 'Dickens', don't you?"

A disjointed noise exploded through the room. It sounded like a shorting appliance drowning in water (onomatopoeically Quinn would've call it a 'splurt'). The origin was the silver-eyed android. The thing bowed its head, the hinges of its artificial face contorted with something approaching a grin.

"I apologize," it said.

Eggman shrugged. "No need, Andy. It was funny."

Quinn knew that there was _something _funny about that line, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It just popped into his head, and it really felt like the right thing to say at the time.

Although, in hindsight, it really wasn't.

The man pushed a button on his remote control, and the sleeves pulled Quinn up and out of his chair, suspending his body a good foot off the ground, dangling by the wrists.

"You can certainly _talk_ funny, child, but I assure you you'll end up _looking _funny, too, if you don't answer my questions!"

"I've got no answers to give, slime ball! So, what are you gonna do? Torture me, or something?"

Eggman crossed his arms, smiling. He leaned closer to the robot— 'Andy'— and shook his head.

"Hollow bluster, huh? Tragic, really: to see such potential intelligence buried under such naiveté! And methinks the poor child mistakes _recklessness_ for _bravery_..."

"_Stupidity_, more like," the robot grumbled.

"Mmm. And children are entitled to a modicum of it, aren't they? But, still, there _is _a limit..."

"Go suck an egg!" Quinn snarled.

"Ah, that one wasn't particularly funny," the android muttered.

"Oh, but the poor boy's right in the middle of being tortured, Andy. Give him a little credit for his feistiness, at least..."

Quinn squinted. "What? _Being _tortured?" The boy looked up at his suspended wrists, wriggling his body around a bit. "You mean _this_ is it?" It certainly wasn't comfortable, mind you, but to use _that_, in and of itself, as torture? Eggman would do better to keep monologuing at him.

_That_ was pure deadliness.

"Stringing you up is all I _need _to do," Eggman leaned close to the boy. "Tell me: where are you feeling the pain right now?"

"_Wrists_. Duh."

"And where else?"

Quinn thought about that for a minute. There was nothing else too serious. Now, granted, there was an itty-bitty needlelike ache sticking up around his pecks...

Eggman must have noticed Quinn looking down at his chest. The man chuckled.

"Your lungs are surrounded by a muscle wall we call 'intercostal'. When a victim is hung by his wrists those muscles begin to strain. That strain intensifies over time, so long as the victim hangs, until the muscle finally gives out, much like a sheet of gelatin melting apart under the sun." Eggman tapped the boy's ribcage. "No intercostal muscles, no breathing, and no breathing, well. It is a particularly painful way to die, child, and it… is… slooooow..."

By now Quinn's adorably badass face had a more ashen hue to it. Eggman sneered, taunting the boy:

"Bet they never taught you _that _little nugget of wisdom on your 'Saturday AM' cartoons, did they?"

"W—what do you want to know?" Quinn asked.

"You were a passenger about a ship called _Rainbow Runner_."

"So I've been told..."

"From what side of the Rainbow did that ship originate? Which colony did it come from, and why did it make the journey to Mobius? Or was Mobius even the final destination? What were the circumstances behind the crash? Was it a navigation failure? And did they keep any spare parts onboard to repair their Slipper, if they were so required?"

"I was a Popsicle during that trip; there's no way I can answers those questions!"

"Granted. But you can answer the first half of them, can't you?"

"Well you'd _think _so, but..."

Eggman tapped the remote, causing Quinn's body to rise another foot above the ground. The man scowled at him. Quinn wagged his head.

"I _can't _answer any of those questions for you! Listen: I really would if I _could_, but—"

"_Why _can't you?"

"I was hurt in the crash—"

"You look just fine to me—"

"I have a depotentiated hippocampus!"

Eggman's cold black eyes twitched. He perched his lips, and then eventually he shrugged. When he tapped a button on his remote Quinn was brought back down to the ground. With another press of the button the boy's cuffs snapped off. Quinn instinctively pushed the cruel sleeves away from him, cradling his wrists. He looked up at Eggman, who only grunted, before turning his back on the boy and attending to his consoles.

The boy crossed his arms.

"W— what's with that? No more questions?"

"No point." Eggman didn't bother turning around. "You have brain trauma—_amnesia_— don't you?"

"But you're just gonna take my word for it?"

"I wouldn't if you'd faked a tummy ache or a migraine, but what 10-year-old boy would say he has a 'depotentiated hippocampus' if he hadn't heard it from someone else? Namely, the ones that first _diagnosed_ him..."

"I'm more like 12," Quinn grumbled.

"As a courtesy to a fellow human being I'll forgo your restraints, for now. If you abuse that courtesy you will be sorely sorry. Do you understand?"

The boy looked off to one side, scowling. Eventually, however, he gave a microscopic nod.

"Good boy," Eggman said.

A chime at one of the consoles caught the android's attention. It brushed its metal fingers along the screen; tiny bolts of electricity crackled in the air between them. Andy immediately faced Eggman, its silver eyes bright.

"A development," it said. "Surveillance from the edges of the Dolamiram."

Eggman went to the console, scanning its contents. If Quinn had the mind he could have leaned over, on tiptoes, to check the display, but a surly glower from the android made him think twice about that.

He didn't even know an android _could _have a 'surly glower'. This one sure did, though.

"Interesting," Eggman cooed.

"What is it?" Quinn asked.

"The locals here might not be entirely ready to give you up..."

The boy cocked his head.

"It's a small party," Andy noted. "A minimal threat."

"And what do they look to be..." Eggman leaned in, eyeing the monitor closely. "Perhaps... a sloth, two others... and a rat..."

Quinn lifted his head.

"A rat?"

"Why not?" Eggman chuckled. "We've got a baited trap, haven't we? But what bastards these animals really are! They're just a touch vindictive, don't you think? Not at _all_ good sports..."

"Presumably they want to engage the _Viper_. It's their funeral," Andy's metal body shuddered, imitating a shrug.

"If they choose it to be? Certainly. Thatcan be arranged."

V.

Fionnghal grit her teeth, twisting her head to one side.

"If you wouldn't mind moving that paw, Brady. We really don't know each other that well..."

"Sorry. Uh..." the sloth shifted his weight in their little pile, but Fionnghal shoved him off her. She crawled to the edge of the thicket, pushing thorny barbs off her back. She scanned the sky.

"Think that Dame scout saw us?" Brady asked. "Not much light left, but, well, that _was _a Dame."

"Dunno. She's gone now, anyway. Take that for what you will."

"Think I'll choose 'pessimistic'. It's a favorite of mine..."

"Mmm. Prudent, too. Well, so we assume Eggman's ready for us. So what, right?"

Two furry heads peeked out from deeper within their thicket; nervous brown eyes glistened atop striped black muzzles.

"So they'll be on alert now..." one of the creatures said.

"...and _looking _for us!" The other finished.

"Dolamiram's always on alert. Delts don't know the meaning of the word 'at ease'." Fionnghal stood, wandering over to a nearby slope in the land. "So this changes nothing: the mission's still on."

The two raccoon dogs emerged from the thicket behind Brady; one was male, and the other female. Their brindled bodies could never be considered 'malnourished', although they weren't nearly as awkward-looking as Brady. Their large canine ears twitched nervously, and as they stole hesitant glances between each other Fionnghal got the distinct impression that her words were not being taken at face value.

She took Brady aside when they made camp a short time later.

"I know we're really stretched thin on personnel, but the best escort you could manage was a pair of raccoon dogs? _Really_?"

"Frankly we have to take what we can get. Our soldiers were slaughtered in that complex invasion, you know. Hell, I was at my wits end just trying to find _any _civvy volunteers. Truth be told, I was literally forcing a rifle into some badger's hands while his tots were all tugging at him, bawling their little eyes out. You know, the whole 'daddy don't go' spiel. Great experience, by the way. It's a godsend they volunteered at all, although they really waited until the last minute to do it."

Fionnghal cast another skeptical glance at the pair, sitting off by their fire, warming their paws. Brady offered another ringing endorsement of them.

"Look: they know one end of a rifle from the other, at least. That's saying a lot more than most civilians."

"They really look alike," Fionnghal mused. "I mean, most canines do, but still..."

Brady nodded. "_Siblings, _actually. If you can believe that—"

"You brought _siblings_ in on a combat operation? Are you _insane_?"

"They'll do their jobs just fine, ma'am. I've got the sense they actually know what they're doing, after a fashion..."

The rat scoffed.

"No, you just didn't want to tear any badgers away from their adorable little offspring's arms. Fine: that means _you're _vouching for them, Brady. They cut and run and I'll be holding _your_ balls to the fire. And I don't particularly like the idea of going into combat with a canine; the badger would've been a far better choice. You know, for the record, I'd expect our Chief of Security to act a little more ruthlessly when the situation demands it."

Brady looked to one side, his lips set together crookedly. After a moment the sloth again looked at Fionnghal.

"Say it," The rat crossed her arms, blue eyes narrowed.

"Say what?"

"You know what. You mean to say you _weren't _thinking about me? About how I dealt with Quinn, and how the only reason we're here right now is because one of your leaders _wasn't _ruthless enough? You _really_ weren't thinking about that?"

"Of course I was," Brady said. "I'd never _say_ it, though..."

"Why not?"

"You're one of my leaders," the sloth shrugged, "you have the _right _to be a hypocrite. _Respectfully_."

"No need for 'respectfulness' right now—"

"Beg pardon: there is. What _isn't _needed right now, I think, is for you to be so bloody defensive about all this. Uh, again: respectfully. You know, people will follow hypocrites just fine; that's not a deal-breaker when it comes to being in command. I think the only thing that's guaranteed to lose you followers is indecisiveness, mixed with a thin skin. That's kinda like adding whipped cream to a cherry pie— makes it irresistible— and it makes everyone in sight want to eat you alive. Now, I'm not necessarily saying you're indecisive..."

Fionnghal tilted her head.

"...and, well, not that you have a thin skin, either... "

Fionnghal tapped her foot, scowling.

"You, uh... you gonna kill me, or something?"

The rat shook her head.

"_Indecisive_," she grumbled.

The hairs on Fionnghal's neck leapt to attention. She whipped about, unsheathing _Curtainrod _in the process, and brandished the glowing blade before a shadowy interloper. The blade cast harsh light over the spiky blue head of a scowling hedgehog.

Brady stepped back in surprise. Pans rattled behind him as the raccoon dogs discarded their meals and went for their rifles. Loud clacks sounded as they loaded the chambers.

The QEDs in Sonic's leg braces exploded with white light. The giant green emerald around his neck turned ghostly pink.

Brady whipped around, waving his ungainly paws.

"Oh, ho! _Ho_! Katchy, Catchie! Weapons down, both of you. Alright? Hey: that means _you_, Katchy!"

The raccoon dogs, prone against rocks, reluctantly lowered their weapons. They didn't come any closer, but watched from a safe distance.

Brady looked at Sonic, who looked at Fionnghal, who looked at Sonic. After an interminable pause Fionnghal looked over at Brady.

"Wait: _Catchy_?"

"Uh, yeah. Both of them are named that. Spelled differently, though. 'K' for the bro, 'C' for the sis..."

Brady was obviously more interested in the appearance of their new guest, but Fionnghal pressed her point.

"_Seriously_? They're bothnamed 'Catchy'?"

"Makes sense to me," Brady shrugged, still eyeing the hedgehog with suspicion. "And I've always thought that 'K' is a more masculine letter than 'C', you know..."

Fionnghal shook her head, rolling her eyes. She stalked off to meet Sonic.

"You, uh, want an escort, or something?" Brady asked.

The rat again shook her head. She wandered past Sonic, into the thick of the woody copse behind them. She found a tree and leaned against it. The hedgehog wandered to her side in short order.

"You're a long way from the Thallomoor, Sonic."

The hedgehog scoffed.

"Not at all. Not even that far out of my way. About a 12 minute jog, give or take."

"I'll thank you not to scare my civvies like that. One of them might've shot you..."

"Mmm. Shot _at _me. That've been funny."

"You're not here to stop me from confronting Eggman, are you?"

"Hardly."

"Then why the hell are you following us?"

"Curiosity," the hedgehog shrugged.

"About?"

"You." He motioned to Fionnghal. "You're a hot-headed, cold-blooded killer, Pew—"

"And you're a brooding, whiney misanthrope. Point being?"

The hedgehog held up a finger.

"But the one thing you _aren't_ is vindictive. Sure, you'll go way out of your way to drop anyone who even looks at you funny, but you've also got a short attention span—"

"You're really making me blush, Sonic. Again, any of this happen to have a point?"

"You _don't _hold long-term grudges, Pew." Sonic leaned against a nearby tree, mimicking Fionnghal's stance. "And I don't think you care one way or the other whether Eggman gets what he needs out of that human juvenile. You're just not that spiteful. And that means you're going into the Dolamiram for some other reason. It's nothing to do with Eggman, and _something_ to do with the juvenile..."

Fionnghal scoffed, shaking her head. The hegehog's piercing gaze, however, made her look away for an instant. That was all it took to break her façade. She looked down at her feet.

"Quinn was captured while trying to run away from us. He found out that we were considering killing him before Delta Tribe attacked, but that wasn't the reason he ran. After the battle I said some things to him, and they were particularly, uh, 'cold'. _Reasonable _things, and they were all justified, too, but... but it was just cold for a _juvenile_ to hear. Yes, that's what I mean. All my words were true, of course, but they were just 'cold'."

"Wish you had killed him back at the complex?"

Fionnghal stared at her feet.

"In any event, of course he'd run after hearing words like that. Who wouldn't?" She looked the hedgehog in the eyes. "I don't owe that juvenile one damned thing, but he's in trouble right now because of me."

"So you've got a responsibility to him—"

"The responsibility is to my own moral _code_, Sonic. And that's all."

Sonic scoffed.

"Your moral code is an abridged pamphlet, Pew. And even then, it's missing a few pages..."

The hedgehog sauntered off, heading deeper into the woody copse. Fionnghal glared at the back of his spiky head.

"You're not sticking around to say hello to Eggman, I take it?"

"Got my own 'code' to live by, Pew. And unlike your code mine is specific, and I actually _follow _the damned thing..."

Fionnghal noticed a messy row in Sonic's quills, running all down his back. Several of them were bent awkwardly, others merely out of place, coated in a fine powder of dirt. At first she thought these blemishes were souvenirs from the compound battle, but then Fionnghal realized that, as far as she knew, Sonic had gone untouched all during the fighting.

"You should fire your stylist, Sonic. Your quills are in awful shape..."

The hedgehog stopped; he leered back at the rat with one vicious eye.

"Don't think you're more clever than him, Pew, because you're _not_. Whatever aces in the hole you think you've got, that kind of thing falls apart pretty quickly when you're dealing with the Eggman." He faced forward, shaking his head. "You of anyone should know how many bodies have been buried in the ground because they thought they were smarter than him—"

"I know better than you, hedgehog!"

Sonic's voice remained calm and cold, unlike Fionnghal's. His last words to her were spoken in a deathly whisper.

"And please keep in mind: I don't _dig_, Pew."

With that he was gone in a blast of heat and light.

Fionnghal tried to hide her exponentially soured mood when she rejoined the group around their campfire. She failed.

"Banshee get under your skin, did he?" Brady helpfully asked. "What's he doing so far afield, anyway?"

The rat shook her head.

"He's the Banshee," she said. "_Nowhere _is that far afield for him."

The raccoon dog siblings— the 'Catchy' twins— both shuddered as a low boom skirted the earth around them, kicking up a few stray pebbles on the path. Sonic had picked up some speed, wherever he was. The female sibling— the 'K'— voiced her displeasure.

"Frightful creature, that Thallomoor Banshee," Katchy said.

"Mysterious, too," Catchie agreed. "Still, the kind of fellow you just might want on your side when the chips are down, isn't he?"

Brady scoffed.

"The Banshee's all wrapped up in his 'Speedster' mantra. He's just as likely to kick us around for fun as he is the Delts. Nah, all he cares about is maintaining his territory."

"But he _did_ take on the invaders back at the compound, didn't he?" Catchie asked.

"Probably just because he didn't want anyone fighting near the Thallomoor," Katchy said. "He prefers peace and quiet, I suppose."

"_And _he can still say he's neutral. Which, I suppose, he actually is..." Brady said.

Catchie stared into the fire, his black eyes pensive.

"Is thatwhy he didn't kill any of them, do you think? I mean, I've heard from witnesses all around the complex that night. The Banshee attacked so many of those Delts, and violently, but he didn't _kill_ any of them. Did he do that to maintain his neutrality?"

The siblings' eyes turned to Fionnghal, as did Brady's.

"What?" She growled.

Brady cleared his throat.

"Well— if you don't mind my saying— you seem to be on better terms with Sonic than most, so..."

"You wanna know why he chooses to kill or not to kill? You go _ask _him, Brady."

"Ah, no thanks. I've got all my limbs right where I want them, at the moment..."

Fionnghal stood up, kicking dirt on their campfire.

"And if you all keep your wits about you for the next few hours then _everybody's _limbs will stay that way, too. I want cool heads, and I want everyone following the plan." The rat stared down the path before them, her eyes narrowed.

"_We're_ expected," she said. "But it's the _unexpected _that's gonna end up flying right into the Eggman's face."

"And it'll _scramble_ him something fierce," Brady chuckled.

Fionnghal shot the sloth an icy stare. She crossed her arms. The sloth swallowed.

"You, uh... you gonna kill me _now_, maybe?"

The rat scowled.

"You know, I'm getting lessindecisive all the time, Brady..."


	7. Dust Glider

"…_be it for purity of blood, or unity born of its spilling; be it for love of common ideal, or hatred of its opposite; be it any of that which unites __**against**__, or that which prevents division… _

_Above all: be it that which __**draws the lines**__. This is the shared cause; this is the common denominator; through this is the greater good…_

…_this is the __**tribe**_."

From the "Code of the Tribes"

"Dust Glider"

I.

Fionnghal trod across the silty volcanic clay with a cold, confident swagger. Her large boots kicked up tan ash as she traipsed across the land like a show pony.

Never mind that she felt like somebody's entrée at the moment.

Behind her the 'Catchy' twins walked side-by-side, rifles at the ready, moving with a decidedly less-confident shuffle. Fionnghal had hoped that her bold peacock strut might rub-off a bit on the raccoon dogs, but instead of gobbling up her outward cocksureness they seemed to be feeding off the rat's inner uncertainties.

"Listen up, 'K' dogs," she growled. "You do what I say, and stick by my side, and you'll both be fine..." The rat looked back at the pair, her blue eyes piercing. "But if you panic— try to run away, or anything— you'll both end up getting really dead, really quick. You understand?"

The nods she got were hardly encouraging. Fionnghal didn't really blame them.

The Dolamiram— Delta Tribe's home territory— was geographically dominated by a long-extinct volcano. Back in its heyday it was a monster, shaping the land for miles around with explosive flares and rock-melting lava flows, but its final eruptions were the stuff of prehistory. In the volcano's death its shallow caldera was left lush, overrun with mineral-hungry plants that thrived in the rich soil at the crater center. Deep lakes wound through trenches left by the lava flows. By all accounts the place was a paradise.

But that was _before_ Delta Tribe showed up, and before the Eggman got to 'tinkering' with the Delts' bodies. His experiments desperately needed power, and deep within that volcano's burial mound the land still churned and heaved, producing geothermal power on an unimaginable scale. Fionnghal had no idea what the volcano caldera looked like today— few outside Delta Tribe ever managed a peek— but one thing was certain: whatever lush paradise might have once existed there was certainly gone by now. It _had _to be. Outsiders knew next-to-nothing about that sprawling, mechanized center of the caldera, other than what it was called.

The Delts named it 'Genocide City'.

At the moment Fionnghal's party was skirting the 'rim' of Delta Tribe territory: a circular plateau of barren land covered in ashy dunes. It was a volcanic desert, poisoned land surrounding the caldera unfit for life even before the volcano was born. When sunny the place was _ungodly _sunny; the crystalline ash flakes reflect light wildly, leaving the land blazing in a disorganized bed of sunlight. This is unbearable to most, but very desirable to the Dames; the intense light is nothing short of manna for their powered armor's voltaic cells.

Thankfully there was a thick bank of moody, fast-moving clouds above them today. Off in the distance a large dark shape broke that low-lying cloudbank, hovering no more than fifty feet off the ground. The air beneath it was misshapen and distorted by vapor trails, giving the illusion that the great airship was merely the head of some larger, more fearsome creature. The craft droned with a forlorn shriek, echoing all across the land.

Fionnghal stopped within sight of the craft. She surveyed the land, noting every oversized dune and rock formation around them, and then turned her attention to the siblings behind her.

"You two ready?" She asked.

Before either could reply Fionnghal shook her head.

"Scratch that," she said. "Rhetorical question. Just follow my lead."

The rat moved onward, on course to confront the leviathan.

"And no matter what happens be sure you both remember: _stay behind me_."

II.

Thadesch's stomach grumbled as he approached the narrow cavern entrance.

"At least be _civilized_," he tapped his bulbous midsection with reproach.

The toad confirmed his coordinates and went to work surveying the area around the cavern. Finding himself alone he carefully wedged his body through that too-narrow stone maw and shuffled into a larger expanse. Before proceeding he removed a set of tiny motion-detecting sensors from his pack and carefully positioned them, unobtrusively, at the cavern entrance in an inescapable array. Satisfied with his work he then set a pair of light-bearing goggles over his face and waddled deeper into the cave, surveying every single nook and cranny as he moved. The path was small, and no single stone escaped the toad's notice.

He soon reached a dead-end, which was unsurprising. What _was _surprising was the small metal box resting against the cavern wall. Before he could even step forward, however, the air crackled with the snap of a bullet chambering into a gun. And that clack came from behind him. It was followed by a whispering voice, gravelly, like someone with a very bad case of strep.

"I'd be pleased if you didn't turn around, Thadesch."

The toad cocked his fleshy brow.

"Well, now, Ground-Master. I'm surprised you even said a word."

"Thought me the taciturn type, did you?"

"Animals like us are _always _taciturn. Especially when we're at our most talkative..."

"Well said."

Thadesch slowly produced his pipe and lighter; he got to puffing before he spoke again.

"I expected to be dead before I even set foot in here, you know."

"Oh?"

"Given that I'm overdrawn with you, right now. When I heard you wanted to see me after the complex invasion I assumed it was a death sentence; you have no reason to help someone who's _already _in your debt, after all..."

"But you still came, anyway? Why would you do that, Thadesch?"

"A little rattie demanded it of me..."

"And you'll blindly do whatever it is Fionnghal De'Sulum orders of you?"

"Yes, in fact. For the time being, at least." Thadesch stared down at the metal box. "Well, given that, for one, I'm _not_ dead at the moment, and two, there's a box in front of me, I take it that she was correct when she ordered me to attend this meeting. What's in the box, GM?"

"Your superiors currently believe that your former chief of security betrayed _Filigree _and disabled your e-grid. Correct?"

"They do. It was a chameleon— Kakkari Nez— and he was working with someone in your organization. Presumably he was employed by the Delta Tribe regulars, most likely their leader: the armadillo Tatu." The toad took a long drag from his pipe and scoffed. "That one is a particularly dedicated chap, isn't he? Pursuing us into the Thallomoor and all. Now we're on the verge of disbanding _Filigree _and he's already got another ridiculous name he wants to use to hunt us by: 'Theta Tribe'. Rather a bloodthirsty fool..."

"You surprise me, Thadesch; any amateur snoop could figure that Tatu's motives are not exactly... apparent. But tell me this: do your superiors believe that Kakkari Nez acted alone?"

"Fionnghal doesn't. Asher and M'quelo, presumably, have no strong opinion."

"What if I told you that Fionnghal De'Sulum was the traitor? That she cleverly faked her suspicions about there being a traitor in the ranks in order to lead you here, to your death? Plenty treacherous, yes? And she _is _a PEW, after all..."

"I'd think it interesting."

"'Interesting'? That's _all_?"

Thadesch took a long drag from his pipe, nodding genteelly.

"Yes. 'Interesting', but in no way true."

"You really have such faith in her?"

"Not at all. But she won't betray me for the same reason _I _won't betray her; we have a certain mutually-beneficial relationship. Our hands scrub each other's backs. And believe me, with the size of _my _back, that's a real necessity."

"Well, I for one would never travel under a rat's banner, but then to each his own. And in this case you're right about that little dirty rat; she's clean, at least metaphorically speaking. And mutual gain _is _the best reason to trust someone, I suppose..."

Thadesch turned his head ever so slightly.

"And it's the same reason I _don't _trust you, right now. You're breaking our tit-for-tat, GM—"

"Such a cynic. You're really so suspicious of generosity, Thadesch!"

"I'm a realist. And it's the _price_ of generosity that I usually object to."

"Ulterior motives, hmm? Well, in this case mine happens to be rather mundane. Namely: your organization will crumble if you don't learn who your mole is, and there's no way you'll ever learn that without my help. You're quite the pathetic crew, Thadesch, but you're all just too good for _my_ business to just let you die outright, my fat frog friend..."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Mmm. That box, Thadesch, will get _you _somewhere, though..."

Thadesch took this as a cue to open the box up; he awkwardly got to his knees, grunting, and flipped open the lid. He took a few seconds to survey the box's contents.

"Suitably grotesque," he muttered.

"_Informative_. When viewed in the proper light, at least. You know what to do with it, Thadesch. And even if you don't, I'm sure that little two-tailed fox back in the Thallomoor does."

"And what do I owe you for this courtesy?"

"Would it really put your mind ease if I asked you for something in return?"

"Yes," Thadesch said.

There was a long pause; when the Ground-Master spoke again his voice was more distant, closer to the cavern entrance.

"Too bad; it's on the house, 'friend'. Learn to live with it. Or don't..."

Silence dominated for a time; after a minute Thadesch heard the tinny peal of his motion sensors going off at the cavern entrance. Only then did he bundle up the box and again stuff his pipe between his flabby lips.

"Cheeky bastard," he muttered.

III.

Quinn stood far back from the consoles as Eggman and Dasy monitored the situation. He cocked his legs awkwardly, arms crossed, positioned near the middle of the ovoid chamber. He thought about what he should do, if anything, and realized that any action on his part was a futile thing. For a time he considered rushing the gaunt man, landing some sucker-punches of his own on the Eggman's back. Of course, Eggman had at least two-feet on him, and _he_ hadn't just been thawed from a cryo-tube.

And it wouldn't matter if he had been, Quinn thought. The boy had to face facts: he _was _a boy, and at present he was completely and utterly helpless. Any acts of violence on his part could only worsen his situation, and so he would have to refrain from any acts of violence.

Easy enough, right?

A chime alerted Dasy, who turned his awkward metal head and spoke to Eggman in that soothing, lyrical voice of 'his'.

"She's on her way up," the android said.

Eggman nodded, and then he faced Quinn. The man beckoned to the boy with one crooked finger, coaxing Quinn to approach him. Quinn, scowling all the while, took a few grudging steps forward.

And then the floor behind him flared open: a circular hole exposed a sheer drop down to the desert land below. Quinn fell forward, gasping, as air and dust billowed all around him.

Two big, lanky damselflies reared up through that opening, milky white wings buzzing as their powered armor crackled and whined. They supported a third damselfly between them, arm-in-arm: this was a damselfly with stubs where her wings should be.

The flying Dames gracefully deposited their wingless sister on the floor beside Quinn and then immediately dove back out the circular hole headfirst; that hole immediately closed-up again.

The wingless Dame didn't miss a beat, strolling up to Eggman with militaristic precision.

"Mmm." Eggman grunted, motioning to the console with his head.

Dasy's metal fingers brushed the keyboard, flickering with electricity. A grainy image filled the chamber's man viewer, showing the moody volcanic desert with three tiny specks moving across it. The image zoomed dramatically, revealing Fionnghal marching in front of two other animals.

"Were they in the complex?" Eggman asked.

The damselfly cocked her head.

"The dirty _rat _was, at least. She's a leader in that group, or at least what _passes _for a leader; her name's Fionnghal—"

The wingless Dame peeked at Quinn as she spoke, but soon turned her attention back to the Eggman.

That was a mistake.

He hit her in the midsection— mid-speech— and even then had to leap up in the air to do it. The boy roared as he clawed at her face— which he missed— and then the lower-half of her amputated wings, which he did get a scratch at, prompting a pained grunt from the damselfly.

But this was followed by a vicious, over-the-shoulder toss. Quinn's body flew like a ragdoll, and he slammed into the metal floor hard. The damselfly's elbow came down against his throat. The boy stared up at the Dame with wild, hateful eyes, breathing hard, as if he were on the verge of tears.

Well, no 'as if' there, really.

The Dame leaned in closer to the boy; her cold breath buzzed his nose.

"Do _not _tempt me, little one," she snarled.

Quinn responded with a salvo of spit; it struck square within the damselfly's mouth. At first the creature reared up, surprised, but then the dragonfly leaned in closer. She grinned horribly, and then her throat undulated, lips smacking, as she gulped down the boy's saliva. That made Quinn shudder, and it made the Dame's grin widen.

"You were saying, Bellesailes?"

The Dame looked up at Eggman; she glowered, sullenly releasing Quinn from her chokehold, and approached the man.

"The rat's name is Fionnghal. You'll have to ask Tatu for a more detailed biography. He seems to be more... familiar with the _Filigree _members' dossiers. I only know one other thing about her: that dirty girl is actually a Pin—"

Eggman sternly pointed at the screen.

"Was it one of them that maimed you?"

The Dame looked away, teeth cemented together.

"That was my own fault—"

"That wasn't my question," Eggman said. "Again: were any of them responsible for maiming you?"

"That's a private matter," the damselfly replied.

"Bellesailes—"

"It's between me... and a _hedgehog_."

It was then, for the very first time, that Quinn saw a genuine look of surprise on the Eggman's face.

"A... a hedgehog? Wh—"

"Sir," the android interrupted.

"_What_?"

"The subjects are within range," Dasy replied.

Those tight-drawn muscles on Eggman's face relaxed. He looked down at Quinn, who by now had managed to get to his feet once again.

"Sorry to say, my boy, but right now one of two things is about to happen: either you're about to be joined by a few familiar friends, or the vultures will be scraping what's left of their guts off the desert floor. And it's _their _choice, not mine..."

Quinn balled his fists; again he took action.

And it was hardly original action: he spit at the Dame once again, only this time she easily caught the wad in her gloved hand, tightening her fist menacingly. Eggman chortled.

"I don't think he likes you very much!"

The damselfly snarled.

IV.

Fionnghal dug her boots into the ground. She unsheathed _Curtainrod _and flipped it around dramatically in her left hand, pausing in a flashy combat stance.

The raccoon dogs behind her were suitably unimpressed.

"And just what the hell does that kind of thing accomplish?" Catchie whispered to her brother.

"Lots," Katchy answered.

"Name one thing!"

Katchy shrugged.

"Well, for one: it looks very, _very _cool..."

"You know what they say about perception and reality, K-dogs..." Fionnghal grumbled.

But then— if that were the case— her little group might be in serious trouble. The leviathan before them gave the distinct impression that it was a battle-hardened airship capable of raining down a nightmarish hellfire of death from above.

And _that _perception was reality.

The _Egg Viper_ loomed large over the land: a giant ovoid 'head', bearing the smallest slit in its face for an eye, descending back into a segmented 'body' of cargo bays and ancillary compartments. Beyond all that a massive, spike-studded 'tail' swished freely in the desert air, built of ever-smaller pieces of serrated metal, culminating in what can only be described as a demonic Cuisinart at its tip. Ever the stickler for detail, Eggman saw fit to include four stubby, vestigial 'legs' radiating out along the main body of the craft. Each of these housed a hover apparatus. Put simply, the _Viper _was a giant, flying, mechanical snake.

'nough said, really.

The leviathan's tail swished menacingly through the air; the craft descended, slowly, ponderously, hovering engines screaming out a mournful wail and kicking up clouds of ash in their wake. The head came to rest several stories off the ground, 500 yards from Fionnghal's nose.

Sounds like a big distance. But it really wasn't.

Speakers roared to life; Eggman's deep voice boomed across the land.

"A pleasant afternoon to you all, and welcome to Delta Tribe territory. Now, if you'll just lay down your weapons, we can make your stay here as uncomfortable as possible!"

Fionnghal answered this courtesy with a very loud, very enunciated, four-letter response.

V.

The Dame commander's lips twisted with a grin.

"Dirty rat's got a dirty _mouth_..."

Eggman looked to Dasy, scowling deeply.

"Gatling guns," he growled.

"_No_!" Quinn yelled. "Wait—"

The Dame rapped the back of Quinn's head, but Eggman looked at her with reproach. He shook his head at the boy.

"Thank you for your input, child, but your rat-friend has made her decision. We just have to live with it. And she has to _die _with it..."

All at once the front of the _Viper _shuddered like an unbalanced washing machine. Fionnghal and the raccoon dogs vanished from the monitor, blanketed in dust and ash. Quinn watched, eyes wide, as they disappeared beneath a swarm of machinegun fire.

Seconds later the _Viper _stopped shaking; swirling dust still dominated the monitor, and it took forever to clear. And when it did Quinn's jaw dropped.

A shimmering blue wall of light peeked out of the dust, behind which Fionnghal stood in a post-swing stance. The translucent curtain between herself and the _Viper_ just barely covered herself and the raccoon dogs, who both crouched low behind the rat, balled-up, trembling, and clearly not at all as confident as their leader.

Eggman snarled.

"What is that? An organized hadron screen? And _very _organized; it's acting as a bulletproof shield..."

"Mmm. Cowardly strategy, right?" Bellesailes crossed her arms. "Not to mention quirky."

Eggman shook his head.

"No: _quarky_. She has a Quantum Effects Discriminator in that sword?"

The Dame nodded, leering at the shimmering blade.

"They call it _Curtainrod_—"

"Well, '_they_' are idiots—"

"Her sword has a name?" Quinn whispered.

"That weapon uses a QED," Eggman said. "They _all _get names..."

The damselfly moved to one of the room's sloping walls and rapped her gauntlet against a certain spot; a compartment popped open, exposing a variety of bladed weapons. Quinn's eyes were drawn to the bottom of the compartment: the twisted chunk of y-shaped metal he'd used as an improvised slingshot back at the _Filigree _complex lay on its side, still tethered with elastic from the boy's jumpsuit.

The Dame immediately selected a cruel-looking broadsword and unsheathed it with a fierce yank.

"Bellesailes—" Eggman growled.

"Dirty rat wants a swordfight? Dirty rat _gets_ a swordfight!"

The Dame then let out a piercing shriek; it was otherworldly, bringing Quinn to his knees, ears in agony. It actually brought color to his eyes: a manic cloud of reds and purples. The peal was brief, but enough to make the boy feel his head might burst at the seams. Eggman, however, seemed entirely unaffected.

The circular hole in the _Viper _again opened up, and again two Dame escorts flew up onto the deck, poised at the ready.

Eggman stood between those Dames and their commander.

"That rat has riflemen down there. Well, rifle-_tanuki_, at least—"

"My girls'll lay them low..." the Dame swished her blade through the air, snarling. "And I'll bring back that rodent's head on a spit!"

"Appetizing idea, but no; she has a QED weapon—"

"And I'll gladly take it off her corpse—"

"—that your blade is clearly no match for."

The damselfly again snarled.

"Skills trump tech! And _I'm _more than a match for _her_!"

"Mmm. And you're a touch too valuable to lose in some worthless skirmish. You're a _commander_, Bellesailes, not a foot soldier!"

The Dame looked down at her feet, grumbling. Eggman continued:

"I heartily approve of anyone stupid enough to risk their life for my benefit, and if you want a chance to get yourself killed, well, that's sure to come up in the future. But, when it does, it won't be in some foolhardy cock-measuring contest!"

Bellesailes carelessly tossed her sword aside. She motioned to her subordinates, who nodded and dropped back out the hole.

Eggman again faced the window; Quinn noticed a cruel smile in his reflection.

"Besides, my dear: I do believe hersword _is_ bigger than yours..."

Bellesailes glared at Eggman, snarling; when she noticed Quinn looking up at her she raised a hand to strike him, but Eggman stopped her.

"No puppy-kicking, if you please." The man looked over to his android. "Dasy, if you'd be so kind: show our guests down on the desert floor the _Viper's _gular guns, won't you?"

The android tilted its head in a brief nod.

"Gular guns?" Quinn whispered.

The Dame commander crossed her arms, scowling bitterly.

"Just see if she can block _this_, juvenile..."

VI.

The K-twins jumped, startled, as the _Egg Viper _shuddered and bucked. Loud clicks blasted from the aircraft's carapace, and soon the pointed tip of the leviathan began to change. Two 'lips' of cruel metal plates parted, exposing a yawing cavern of a mouth. More rusty clicks brought a set of gleaming metal tubes out from either side of that orifice, rising out of the craft's throat.

"What the hell's Eggman doing, now?" Catchie asked.

The _Egg Viper _finished its transformation, further exposing those gleaming metal tubes from its mouth. They were hollow, like massive gun barrels. Far behind them, deep within that yawning mouth, a thick pane of tempered glass shone. Behind that Eggman leered down at the desert floor, his android standing close by.

Fionnghal grinned.

"The old codger's evening the odds for us. Pity he doesn't know it, just yet..."

Fionnghal grabbed a radio from Katchy's backpack.

"You there, Brady? _Now_." The rat turned to Catchie. "And get those signal flares ready: it's time to arrange the juvie's checkout..."

VII.

"Gular guns prepped and ready," Dasy said.

Quinn stood far apart from Eggman and his cronies, crouched, eyes very wide and heart pumping in overdrive; the entire ovoid room had just contorted like a demented funhouse, changing dimensions and losing that massive blast shield. It was a jerky process, and the boy felt like he'd survived an earthquake. His legs still trembled.

"Missiles," Eggman growled.

"Loading," Dasy answered.

The giant tubes below the ovoid room rumbled to life. Beyond the thick glass wall Quinn could smell all the vapors and oils fuming off the airship's body, smoldering like a stinky sweat in the desert air. The boy approached the glass wall, placing his hands against the thick pane. Eggman looked down at him, scowling.

"On account of your 'tender' age, you might want to look away. Your furry friends' burned bodies are about to compliment our fine desert ash down there. Tch! 'Ashes to ashes', after all..."

Suddenly a bright red flash hit Quinn square in the eyes; the boy stumbled backward, hands covering his face. Eggman first noticed his spazzy behavior, and then he looked up at the desert horizon.

"Dasy," he said. "That dune peak... that red dot—"

Just about then the alarms sounded.

Dasy's fingers danced across the console, sparkling. The android's head came up quickly.

"We've been target-lock," it said. "Distance is 1.2 kilometers. Device... most likely a portable missile launcher—"

"Tit-for-tat, huh?" Quinn smirked.

"Close the mouth—" Eggman barked.

Dasy wagged its head.

"Time to close mouth greater than estimated travel time of projectile—"

"Damage estimate?" Eggman snarled.

"Uncertain—"

"_None_. Dirty rat won't hit _us_." Bellesailes shook her head. "They wouldn't risk killing the juvenile—"

"_She_ would. She doesn't care," Quinn said. "She wants me dead, anyway." The boy looked up at Eggman. "Why do you think I was running from them in the first place? You'd better take her seriously, 'cause she'll kill us all without a second thought!"

"And I'll do the same to her, naturally," Eggman looked down at the desert scene, stroking one spindle of his moustache while he watched that far-off dune. A tiny speck of red light shone atop it, glittering like a warning beacon.

"So, it's a stalemate, is it? How— oh, how— do we resolve this unfortunate turn of events?"

"It's not unfortunate: it's a _fair fight_," Quinn grumbled. "And it only happened 'cause you're an idiot. It's '_asses _to ashes', right?"

The wingless damselfly picked up her sword from the floor.

"Have you gone deaf, Bellesailes?" Eggman faced her.

The Dame pointed at the tip of her sword, exasperated.

"_Stalemate-breaker_!"

"No. But you get your girls ready to fly out to that dune; have them pick-off that lone artilleryman..."

The circular hole in the floor again opened up, and again the two Dames appeared beside their commander. Bellesailes looked back at Eggman.

"That missile launcher will swat them from the sky..."

Eggman smiled. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

"Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to unveil our new little toy. Pity we didn't get the chance to use it back at the _Filigree _compound. Not before that grandiose armadillo went off on the warpath. What a hot-blooded fool..."

"'Toy'?" Bellesailes cocked her head; she looked more like a parrot than a damselfly. "Something you wanted to use during the compound invasion?"

"Just a little piece of technology," Dasy clarified.

"_Anti_-technology, really," Eggman said. He faced the Dame commander when she frowned at him. "That's not to say _I'm _anti-technology, mind you. No, I'm quite _pro_-technology, my dear. I'm just against it when _others _have it, and when others use it. Like that annoying e-grid that _Filigree _was so fond of— nasty technology with the ability to act against your powered armor. But that was only if youshould you get too close to it. Well, _my _little toy has the power to act against all manner of Mobian technology, and if you know me at all you know I like to up the ante. And so, you see, my new toy has the power to wield action at a _distance_!"

The man returned his gaze to the desert floor, scowling at the creatures below him.

"It's time for you all to _act _like the animals that you are!"

VIII.

Fionnghal again braced herself as the Egg Viper shuddered.

The craft's spindly back cracked along its width, like a shucked clam. Obvious the thing wasn't about to give up a bed of tender flesh, however, and instead a very long, narrow spike emerged from the 'wound'. It towered over the airship, clicking into place, until it pointed ominously across the desert landscape.

There was a loud hum. Then the 'tingles' set in.

Fionnghal's body hairs bolted to attention. A certain lightness exploded all over her coat; she felt her hair might either lift her right up into the air or else sail off without her, leaving her bare. The rat's ears twitched rhythmically; this feeling was most uncomfortable.

"What—"

Static blared over her radio; Brady's voice was nearly inaudible.

"Fionnghal! _Big _problem! The launcher's going haywire on me; my bead on the _Viper _is lost. I say again: I've _lost _my bead—"

The sloth's voice disappeared into static. Fionnghal grit her teeth and looked back at the raccoon dogs.

Catchie's wide jaw slackened a bit. She looked at Fionnghal with questioning eyes, but finding no answers there she looked to her brother.

Katchy tightened the grip on his rifle and shored up his burly shoulders. He certainly looked more confident than his sister, but his voice was another matter entirely.

"Mistress?" He whispered to Fionnghal.

The rat's eyes didn't have an answer for him, either.

And when the _Egg Viper's _gular guns roared to life she barely had time to speak at all.

"_Down_!"

_Curtainrod _whipped through the air, and again the sword produced a shimmering wall of light.

And then the entire world shattered all around them.

Fionnghal flipped through the air at least twice, tossed about like a piece of dust. A thick cloud of ash billowed all about in the wake of the explosion. She landed prostrate, jaw aching and muscles screaming. The ash dust blinded her, and her ears screamed. That gunshot wound in her shoulder again exploded with pain; her field stitches threatened to burst at the seams. So deaf and so blinded, the rat's first thought was that she had moved on: clearly she was dead.

No. That couldn't be right.

Only the pain kept her grounded in the moment.

But now she could only wait for the next missile: a bitter coup-de-grace. She had no idea where the raccoon dogs ended up, or how many pieces they ended up _in_. She knew one thing: Catchie most certainly bought it. The male raccoon dog took a chunk of shrapnel right into the gut when the missile exploded through her sword's barrier; Fionnghal watched that chunk tear into him as if it were in slow motion. It kinda _was _in slow motion, actually. In any event that thick metal chunk was certainly enough to carve a swath through Catchie's insides. That was a nice feeling: not content to be in blinding pain herself, Fionnghal could also treasure the fact that she'd just made poor Katchie an only-child.

Still, her body certainly hurt more than her feelings, at the moment.

The trauma was too much for her, in fact. She was delirious; Fionnghal could've sworn she saw a pair of red-and-white running shoes lazily tromp past her prostrate body, as if waltzing through the carnage.

IX.

Quinn's nose lay smooshed against the transparent wall of the bridge, his hands pressed up tight against the glass.

"Hit them again," Eggman whispered.

The boy looked up at the man, hateful tears forming in his narrowed eyes. Eggman looked down at the boy briefly— coldly— before turning his attention back to the dunes below.

A second missile screamed from the guns below, rocketing down to finish Fionnghal's party off. Quinn was about to look away when a very curious thing happened: the missile exploded. That normally wouldn't be so unexpected, but for the fact that it detonated almost immediately after leaving the gun.

That was kinda rough on everyone aboard.

Quinn was thrown clean off his feet, knocking his head against the floor as he struggled to get back upright. Dasy remained impossibly stoic—balanced perfectly on his metal legs even as the ship wobbled—and Bellesailes instinctively fell forward onto all fours. At least Quint _assumed _that was instinct: he figured it'd be a pretty good way to protect one's wings normally, but of course right now she happened to lack wings, didn't she?

Eggman stumbled against the glass wall, snarling.

"Are we playing with the proximity detonators, Dasy? Now _might _not be the best time!"

The android wagged its head.

"Proximity detonators inactive: missile detonation achieved by physical contact—"

"With _what_?"

A high-pitched whistle blared outside; the glass directly in front of Quinn's face fractured violently. Whatever the projectile, it had very nearly cut through the presumably bulletproof glass.

The boy stumbled back a few feet, crossing his arms.

"You know, I think I'm just gonna stand away from the glass..." he muttered.

All eyes focused on the haze below; it took a good thirty seconds before a figure finally emerged from that smoky cloud, and it was an unexpected sight. Red running shoes stepped out across the ash, and above them a lean set of legs bore those fearsome QED braces.

Sonic stopped just outside the swirling cloud of dust. He held up one finger, and at first Quinn thought he might be making a certain rude gesture at the ship, but the _Viper's _camera zoomed in to reveal a small stone balanced perfectly on his gloved digit, spinning sedately.

Quinn couldn't believe it: he had to look down at the hedgehog to be sure he wasn't seeing things. That's when the boy realized his little tumble must've rattled his head: it almost looked like Sonic was _smiling_ as he stared up at the _Viper's _control room. And it wasn't that snarky smirk the hedgehog seemed so fond of, but a real, honest-to-goodness _grin_. It even looked warm. It must've been some trick of the glass, though, because when Quinn looked at Eggman's reflection in the glass it appeared that _he_ was actually reciprocating the gesture.

It _had_ to be a trick, Quinn thought. With that much ice in their veins it didn't seem either of them was even _capable _of a smile. And, if either of them could give a warm, friendly smile like that, they certainlywouldn't be smiling at each _other_, would they?

Bellesailes' reaction was far more direct: the Dame leapt up and screamed at the android.

"_Prep_ _gulars_!"

The android complied, and the _Viper _shuddered with the loading of another missile. Just then Sonic gripped the pebble in his fist and squared himself; he made a show of stretching out one of his legs—the white orbs in its brace swirling with an angry luster. He narrowed his eyes.

Eggman looked at Dasy and shook his head. He anticipated Bellesailes' next move; the damselfly was already lunging for her sword.

"You pick up that blade, my dear, and you'll be peeling potatoes with Tatu's Regulars for a week."

The frothing scowl on Bellesailes' face was priceless, but Quinn was more interested in his makeshift slingshot: it had been dislodged from its perch on the wall and lay a few feet behind the Dame commander, along with a few chunks of his scrap-metal ammunition.

The boy's brow furrowed.

Bellesailes stormed up to Eggman, pointing down at the desert floor.

"That hedgehog fought our troops in the complex! He _attacked_ us!"

"Not for ideology, I'm sure. The hedgehog is a nonissue. He is not a member of _Filigree_—"

The Damselfly leaned forward, her slender face inches from Eggman's; she spoke quietly, but urgently.

"He _maimed_ me. It was _him_! At least grant me my revenge. _Two _missiles, simultaneous: he can't hope to hit them both! You could kill him easily!"

Eggman's teeth scraped together; he slowly pushed the Damselfly away from him, whispering in his gravelly voice.

"You're young, Bellesailes, and at times you're naïve. Don't be a fool, too..."

"Hey!" Quinn yelled.

Both Eggman and Bellesailes turned to face the boy, who now stood with his slingshot prepped and loaded with a chunk of metal. Bellesailes immediately squared herself between the boy and Eggman; the delicate, leathery flesh of her face contorted into the darkest of scowls.

"Put this ship down!" The boy barked. "Land it, right now!"

The damselfly's scowl deepened. Slowly, purposefully, she took a step forward. Then another.

"Back off!" Quinn tightened his grip on the slingshot, leveling the weapon at the Dame's sternum.

"Careful, boy," Eggman muttered as he stared out the window, seemingly uninterested in the event taking place behind him. "Hit someone in the eye with that and you might do some damage. I couldn't properly forgive that." the man turned his head. "As _eyes _are very difficult to repair..."

The damselfly continued stepping towards the boy.

"We could take one off _him_, couldn't we?" She said.

"Mmm. But I surely doubt that his blood wouldcrossmatch with you, my dear..."

Bellesailes stepped to within a few feet of the boy. Quinn snarled, closing his eyes, and then he fired the weapon. There was a _thunk_, loud and tinny, and when the boy opened his eyes both he and Bellesailes looked down at the Dame's powered armor: one small ribbon of metal along her breastbone was dented, ever so slightly. The Dame looked up at the boy, eyes burning.

Given the circumstances, Quinn lowered his slingshot and gave his best attempt at an innocent, childlike smile.

That didn't work.

Three seconds later Bellesailes had the boy dangling over the edge of that circular hole in the ship's floor. Quinn teetered unsteadily, one hand gripping the Dame's midsection, the other holding her arm as she held the boy out by his throat. After a time Eggman waved his hand.

"That's quite enough. Release him, Bellesailes."

The damselfly grinned.

"_Phrasing_!" Quinn choked.

"You know what I mean, my dear," the man grumbled.

The damselfly scowled, roughly tossing the boy down at the very edge of the hole. Quinn dared only get to his knees; his heart might've burst if he tried anything more dramatic.

A stern voice boomed over the ship's speakers:

"I... am... _waiting_!"

Eggman slowly toddled to the glass wall and stared down at the hedgehog below. He parted his lips genteelly, and politely whispered his response, counting on the ship's loudspeakers to amplify his voice.

"For...?"

Sonic sneered.

"I have business with one of your passengers—"

"_Damn _right you do!" Bellesailes growled.

"Muzzle the pets! The passenger in question is a mammal, not a _robot_—"

"Cyborg," Dasy corrected.

Quinn thought about mentioning another c-word. Perhaps wisely, he did not.

Eggman scoffed.

"'Robot'? And I suppose those are just decorative trellises on your legs? There's a saying about pots and kettles, S—"

"So you'll fork over that juvenile." Sonic crossed his arms. "And you'll do it now."

Eggman reciprocated the grandiose arm-crossing.

"That a request?"

"Demand," Sonic answered. "And a _legal _demand."

"By a woodland nymph?" Bellesailes scoffed.

Dasy's metal head rose up over his console.

"Actually, etymologically, the term 'banshee' would imply a fairy, rather than a nymph."

Both Eggman and the Dame commander glared at the android. Dasy silently lowered his head and returned to his console.

"You seem a touch out of your jurisdiction, Speedster," Eggman called down to Sonic. "Tell me: with what authority do you come to the aid of this poor, distressed child?"

"Juvenile," Dasy again corrected.

"_Kid_," Quinn grumbled. The boy stood far apart from the group, near the hole in the craft's floor.

Eggman persisted:

"Out with it Speedster: under what color do you come to claim him?"

Sonic stared down at his navel for a moment, and then he returned his eyes to level:

"_Blue_, I think. Or, kinda cerulean..."

At first Quinn thought a pipe in the ship had sprung a leak, or that Dasy's jittery metal body was acting up again. It took him a second to realize that the sound he heard was a soft chuckle. He was even more surprised when he realized it had come out of _Eggman_. The man recovered quickly, his vile sneer returning in short order.

"If you're really sticking to the law, hedgehog, then this is the part in the story where you turn tail and dash off. Otherwise, if you think you're playing the part of some storybook superhero, then this would be the part where things get 'ugly' all around..."

Sonic's eyes were cold daggers.

"Come on now, Ro—"

All at once he paused; the hedgehog quickly began again.

"Come on now, _Eggman_! You don't read many storybooks, do you? 'Cause in any good storybook, the juvie _always _gets saved by a deus ex machina. And, as it so happens..."

Well, _something _certainly happened.

Quinn shrieked as the claws grabbed him: one on his shoulder, the other at his waist, far too close to his crotch for comfort. Eggman and Bellesailes could barely look back at the boy before he was pulled back, violently, forced out the circular hole in the floor. At that point Quinn had more to worry about than just the talons near his crotch.

The desert air hit his face like a blow-dryer as he fell out of the ship and sank down into the sky.


	8. Venom of Serpents

"Venom of Serpents"

I.

She heard a bit of naughty language from the _Viper_. That was weird.

Fionnghal didn't know a machine could have a dirty mouth.

The rat rolled over onto her back, groaning, and then her blue eyes opened wide. With a quick leap she was on her feet, again facing the behemoth before her. Only now she wasn't standing alone.

"Watch the acrobatics, Pew," Sonic said. "You're lucky you've still got legs at all, let alone the brains to use 'em..."

"What just happened?" Fionnghal asked.

"I played your trump card for you."

"Quinn—"

"Is airborne. Probably having a heart attack, too. This was a really stupid plain. But with some tweaks, it was at least serviceable—"

Those angry shouts for the _Viper's _cockpit subsided. Eggman's voice again filled the speakers.

"_That _was unwise, Speedster!"

Sonic rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.

"Yeah, I know..."

"Why'd you choose to come along, Sonic?" Fionnghal asked. "What made you change your mind? I thought you were so obsessed about not breaking any of those asinine 'laws' of yours." The rat looked at him cockeyed, a mischievous glimmer in her azure eyes. "You _are _sweet on the little human, aren't you?"

The hedgehog scoffed.

"I'm sweet on the _law_, Pew. And that's why I'm here, period."

"Thatmakes about as much sense as Tails when he gets to munching coffee beans..."

Sonic didn't take his eyes off the ship before them.

"You shouldn't let a kit that young get hopped-up on caffeine—"

"Spare me. He likes it, and it helps keep him focused. Gibberish notwithstanding—"

"—given that he's occasionally working on my braces. And weren't _you _the one so worried that _one_ wrong adjustment to them would end up ripping spacetime a new one?"

"That was if _you _worked on them. Difference is that Tails knows what he's doing. Look, can we talk about this some other time?"

"There actually might not be one of those." Sonic's eyes focused on the horizon: a plume of ash rose up in a wavy line, like a hedge of flames cresting the blasted earth.

"Convoy?" Fionnghal asked.

"Probably Delta Tribe. Regulars and Elites, I think," Sonic said. "Well, they had to mobilize eventually."

The hedgehog squinted, and then he cursed in his lowspeak.

"What is it?" Fionnghal asked.

He shook his head, grumbling.

"One second."

Fionnghal shielded her eyes as the hedgehog vanished in a bright blur of light.

II.

"Please to stop those incessant struggles! Your weight is quite _enough _to work with, filthy little mole rat! Not even considering your smell..."

Somehow Quinn managed to stop screaming like a terrified little girl. It helped that his lungs were almost completely empty at this point. The boy craned his neck, staring up into a brilliant azure forest of feathers. Scaly bird claws gripped the boy's shoulders tight.

"_Fringe_?"

The chaffinch bristled; she belted out her words in an angry staccato, in rhythm with her flapping wings:

"Fringelline Sheldapple Spiza-Pinson Vinkholler—"

"How? Wh— _What_?"

That was really the best Quinn could do, given the circumstances.

"I am at the mercy of the Mistress Fionnghal!" The finch bowed her head, exposing that ornately-etched beak to the boy. Her eyes bled conceit. "Or rather _she_ is at _mine_. The Mistress so desperately wants her mole rat, and so she will get it. And _I _get enough meager perks to make that miserable hovel of a forest livable." The finch looked up briefly, as if reconsidering her words. "Tolerable. Or rather: _survivable_, and just barely, at that!"

"But you're no soldier—"

Fringe chortled. It was an odd sensation, and it made her whole body reverberate. This was not comforting to the boy as he watched the ground race by 200 feet below him.

"Soldier? I should think _not_. Talent and intelligence preclude such a thing!"

"How are you doing this, then? The damselflies—"

Another scoff.

"Wretches! They are the lungfish of the sky!"

Quinn wagged his head.

"Uh, damselflies... and lungfish?" After dealing with Eggman's pompous monologues he really was in no mood for nonsensical bragging screeds, and so he told her as much:

"Will you start making_ sense_, you puff-chested... bird-brained... _bird_!"

Not only was this a bad insult, but Quinn quickly realized that he might not want to insult his only current means of avoiding gravity.

"Oh, you ignorant little mole rat! Those ridiculous Dames are like lungfish: creatures of two elements, uncomfortable in _both_. They can fly only slightly better than they can jog..."

Fringe dropped her altitude, cruising low over the dunes as she put a graceful arc into her trajectory.

"And me? Well, the chaffinch is of a different level, and of a different _game_. Myself personally? Well, I'm the best of them, without a doubt! No damselfly could ever catch me," she boasted. "To think: even the Mistress doubted my abilities!"

Quinn cocked his brow.

"Fionnghal did?"

"So confident was her belief in the Dames' superiority, too! She all but told me I could never hope to outpace a simple damselfly. Leader or not, she is a foolish rat! And to see her face after _this_? That would be worth very many trifling perks..."

A small smiled crept up Quinn's face. He had to hand it to her: Fionnghal knew how to push people's buttons. And vanity was always a big button to push...

The boy suddenly gasped.

"_Fionnghal_! Eggman's gonna squash her! We gotta do something!"

"Excuse me: all I must do is take possession of a mole rat..." the chaffinch again bent her head, looking down at Quinn. "And I so _have _possession. That was the sole request of my services. I would sooner court a fruit bat than I would risk my beautiful body any further in this misadventure!" Fringe again looked up at the horizon. "Why, I owe it to _posterity_, if nothing else..."

"Hey: if you're _so _great, then you should be able to swoop down there really quick and—"

"Tch! It is the way of the chaffinch to outfly Dames, and to outfly rockets, even. _Bullets_ are a different matter. No: I will remain outside the range of that bloated airship—"

"Then at least drop _me _off at that next dune!"

"—_and_,following the Mistress's orders, I will also hold on to _you_, stinky mole rat!"

Quinn grit his teeth. He looked down at the ashen ground below him, now racing by quite close, and then he waited for Fringe's next elegant bank, wherein the finch lost a bit of speed.

It was at this point— in his professional opinion— that Quinn utterly and completely lost his mind.

"By the way, Fringe," he said, "you should know that I'm not_ really_ a naked mole rat..."

"Ha! And just what else in creation _could _you be? Hideous thing, you..."

"Nothing in _your _creation, anyway: I'm a human."

Another chortle began, but Fringe's body suddenly stopped its awkward shuddering; the bird craned its head down, peering at Quinn first with skeptical and sardonic eyes, but then a cold and panicked fear burned through her gaze. She suddenly parted her ornate beak and screamed. She screamed quite loud, too.

Quinn didn't hear most of that; he was tumbling head-over-heels across the dunes before long.

He came to a rest face-down, buried in an ash pile. A cursory check showed no obviously broken bones, and so he got to his feet and crested the nearest dune.

The _Viper _hovered in the distance, looming over a tiny speck on the ground that must have been Fionnghal. Quinn hoped it was her, at least. All things considered, he really didn't want that rat's death on his conscience at the moment. If it came to that, he'd have to put it on the shelf next to Myrtle's death, as it was.

"And that's a lot of weight," he grumbled.

Just as he was formulating a suitably insane and suicidal plan to distract Eggman and take the heat off Fionnghal the boy was interrupted by a distraction himself: it was an annoying buzz, like a swarm of flies.

As long as they're not _damsel_flies, he thought. Quinn turned around just in time to see a phalanx of rusty, weather-worn dune buggies blast across the dunes behind him.

"Or _that_."

He actually said that last part out loud. Looking back it was kinda funny. But at the moment? Not so much.

Quinn didn't know who was at the wheel of those terrible, sputtering buggies, but he guessed they weren't friendly. They weren't _driving _friendly, at least. He put his legs to work, racing across the dunes as fast as he could. Which, it turned out, wasn't very fast at all.

The lead buggy pulled up alongside the boy and a hatch popped open; a metal-faced wolf poked its head out and aimed a massive weapon directly at him. Terrified of being shot, Quinn was only partially relieved to see it was a net-gun, instead.

What a relief! He wouldn't take a bullet: he'd just probably break both of his tender little legs when they got wrapped up in the webbing.

The wolf barely had a second to aim before a loud 'pop' sounded. This _wasn't_ the net-gun firing; the device exploded into a mix of broken metal fragments. A bright white blur accompanied this devastation.

Quinn knew this particular blur quite well by now.

Even as the wolf cradled its injured hands Sonic appeared on the front of the buggy. The hedgehog balanced himself for a fraction of a second before driving one of his shoes right into the metal hood, his leg brace blazing with light. His foot sunk at least two feet in, decimating the engine, and then the hedgehog was gone in a silver flash, streaking over the top of the buggy in a miniature rainbow. He repeated this process with the next four buggies in the line before leaping off the last one, gracefully, and spinning through the air. He came to rest about 20 yards away from Quinn, who by now stood in awe of the hedgehog's performance.

Three more buggies crested the dunes. Sonic looked first to them, and then back at the boy. He smiled.

And it _wasn't_ that nice-guy grin Quinn thought he saw earlier.

The boy waved his hands to either side, slowly backing away.

"Uh... wait, Sonic... please: not the—"

Quinn barely had time to see the blur before he became _part _of the blur. The boy screamed as he was snatched-up by white gloves and rocketed across the desert ground, flown head-first like a supersonic boy-torpedo. The trip was a long one, too: by the end of it Quinn's limbs felt like licorice, and his eardrums screamed.

Sonic deposited the boy in an ungainly mess; in his distress Quinn could at least pick-out Fionnghal's large combat boots standing beside him. The boy struggled to get to his feet. Needless to say, he found this to be uncomfortable.

The hedgehog found this to be hilarious.

"Woozy, isn't he? Did Eggman drug him, you think?" He asked Fionnghal.

"I _think _you just forced most of his blood into his toes, Sonic."

"Serves him right," he mumbled. "Little idiot ditches his escort and everything. No survival instinct: _that's _his problem, I think..."

The three remaining dune buggies eventually passed beneath the _Egg Viper_; they flanked the trio in strategic formation, and then rifle-bearing creatures emerged from the outside buggies: wolves from one, and possums from another.

Fionnghal readied _Curtainrod_.

Quinn watched this with his hands on his knees, panting.

"I just wanted... to help..." he managed.

Sonic looked down at the boy, smiling. He stood Quinn up and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You _are _helping. Believe me..."

The occupants of the central buggy emerged: one was another wolf, but this one wearing intricate battle dress, with ribbons and ornaments dangling from a bright uniform, in contrast to the other wolves' black garb. Its metal facemask, too, was more stylized, with a delicate, shiny emboss to the polished metal. The color was brass, not silver.

Tatu the armadillo emerged from the opposite side of the buggy, his sunken eyes as sullen and joyless as ever.

"How am Ihelping?" Quinn asked Sonic.

The hedgehog looked first at the brass-faced wolf, then at Tatu. Finally, he looked up at the _Viper_, his eyes lingering on the bridge window.

Without warning Sonic pulled Quinn in front of him and cracked such a punch to the boy's gut that he thought he'd been shot. Quinn went down immediately, and the vomit came soon after. The boy retched, holding his burning gut as he heaved, his eyes brimming with tears as he coughed.

"Sonic!" Fionnghal hissed.

The hedgehog stepped back slowly, his hands extended to either side. He smiled devilishly, projecting his voice to the airship above.

"I come under color of the Thallomoor, as Speedster of the realm, guardian of its honor! Two times this juvenile violated the laws of my domain: once by venturing into its borders without consent, and another time by _leaving _its borders without my consent. As punishment, _two _thrashings to his body were prescribed, but only _one _was administered..."

Fionnghal's jaw dropped.

"You've _gotta _be kidding me..."

"Now, with this second thrashing, this juvenile's debt to the Thallomoor is paid in full. The realm is appeased, and therefore I have no more cause for him..." Sonic looked back at Tatu and the brass-faced wolf. "But, as it so happens, it seems that the juvenile is now in the possession of _Filigree_. And possession being 9/10th's of the law, well..." He shrugged.

Quinn spit-up another wad of bile.

"You've... gotta be... kidding_ me_..." he managed.

Tatu was, for lack of a better word, apoplectic:

"After all your actions, you _dare _to seek neutrality in this, hedgehog?"

"I'm not seeking. I'm _claiming_." Sonic looked at the brass-faced wolf. "Unless the canines here think that I'm _not _entitled to defend my territory's honor? Well? Is that just not a big deal, anymore?"

The brass-faced wolf grumbled, snorting steam out its mask.

"Your method in securing that right is duplicitous, at best..."

"And _not illegal_, at worst," Sonic replied.

The wolf pointed at the animals flanking them; he addressed Fionnghal.

"Mistress of _Filigree_: it so happens that the other 1/10th of the law often involves _guns_. Not so irrelevant a percentage, is it?"

The flanking animals chambered their weapons and took aim.

And then, from the dunes far behind Fionnghal, two loud clacks resonated in the stale desert air.

Fionnghal's ears twitched; she tried to hide her surprise.

"Nope: it's not an irrelevant percentage at all, wolfie."

This threat of cover fire brought a chill to the burning desert air. For a few seconds nothing happened, but every moment brought another itch to the animals' already twitchy trigger fingers.

Eventually it was Tatu who broke the silence:

"I say we take 'em all down," he grumbled. "Who cares what soldiers she's got covering us? These _Filigree _twits are the softest of the softies—"

"Lumber over here and say that to my face, Tat!" Fionnghal growled.

"They're not even an _amateur_ fighting force! None of them can shoot straight, anyway—"

"Ballsy of you, being such a _wide _target! Tempting fate, much, Tat?"

Tatu's grin widened.

"And of course they can't _fight _worth a damn, either—"

The brass-faced wolf looked over at the armadillo.

"Perhaps schoolyard taunts are _not _the way to settle this situation, Tatu? If you'll restrain yourself and allow the Elites to handle—"

"Ah, but you didn't see this rat after the Delta Tribe _Regulars_ finished cutting through their little complex like knives through butter! Pathetic. Not even a proper fight. That's right! She wasn't so tough at all when we got her tied to a chair, helpless, gun pressed against her kneecap—"

Fionnghal's blue eyes blazed. She unleashed a vicious string of rat lowspeak, as if temporarily incapable of even using the highspeak, before she finally regained at least some composure:

"If you hadn't _blindsided _us with a damned _unprovoked _attack without the slightest _hint _of a grievance then maybe right now you'd have yourself a broadsword sticking right up your—"

Another cloud of steam billowed from the wolf. It turned to face Tatu.

"'Unprovoked' attack?"

Tatu shook his head.

"No, no: it was provoked. They killed one of ours on the wreckage of that human ship—"

"By _accident_!" Fionnghal roared. "And even if it wasn't, and even if you wouldn't believe us, you bastard Delts didn't even give us a chance to explain!"

"Is this _true_, Tatu?" The wolf asked.

Tatu crossed his arms.

"Well… yes, technically, but—"

"You violated the Code of the Tribes?" The wolf's distorted voice burned with anger.

Tatu pointed at Fionnghal.

"They're _not _a tribe! They claim to represent the old order! They claim to rule from the authority of the royal family of Sulumac'Dun! They live in fairy tales! And just because they _say _they've become some phony group called 'Theta Tribe' group doesn't actually mean—"

Fionnghal pointed her blade at the Armadillo.

"Hey! We _never _said—"

"—that doesn't mean they can actually _call_ themselves a tribe!"

Fionnghal opened her mouth, more than eager to shout-down this insane accusation, but the brass-faced wolf literally blocked Tatu from her, standing directly before the armadillo.

"Tatu! You dishonorably, and withoutnotice, attacked a group who had a potential tribal claim?"

"The claim is bogus—"

"As was your _attack_, you treacherous snake! The Code of the Tribes _demanded _they at least explain their claim to tribehood: their uniting factor! By attacking without giving them that opportunity, you've given them their entire _claim_! 'Unity born of spilled blood' Tatu! _That _is their uniting factor. You are a fool!"

Tatu pointed at Fionnghal.

"Hey: she's not making any declarations here and now, is she? So let's exterminate the lot of them before they can even _try_ exercising that claim? They're not a tribe, yet..."

"You'd _further _disgrace the Code?"

Quinn looked up at Fionnghal as the two animals argued. The rat stared at Tatu with undisguised hatred. When she looked down at Quinn her face softened a bit.

"What are they _talking _about?" He asked.

Fionnghal looked like she was about to start a detailed speech, but when she looked at Quinn she closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Tatu messed up. He just gave us a get-out-of-jail-free card. We can make it out of Dolamiram, maybe, because of what he did to the _Filigree _complex. But to do that we'd have to sink down to _their _level. They damn-well ought to know that we're not gonna do that; we're not gonna become what they are." Fionnghal looked up, staring at the _Viper_. "The Delts, and allthe rest of them. The whole reasonwe put _Filigree _together in the first place was to avoid this damned system: to fight _against _it! This setup is killing our miserable little planet! So if it means I've gotta die here today to keep it from spreading..."

Suddenly the rat blinked. She looked down at Quinn: his disheveled jumpsuit, his cut and bruised face, the slingshot in his hand, fingers trembling from exhaustion (among other things).

Fionnghal drew a deep breath, and then she released it.

"Are you tired, Quinn?"

The boy cocked his head, confused, but then he nodded.

"Me, too," she said. "I think we ought to go..."

Tatu and the wolf still exchanged heated words, but when Fionnghal took two steps forward they alerted like pointer hounds.

"And just what do _you _have to say, Fi?" Tatu sneered.

The rat rammed _Curtainrod _into the ground; she crossed her arms, and then barked out words in a voice Quinn didn't think she was capable of:

"My people have been wronged at the hands of the citizens of Dolamiram! Delta Tribe has spilled the blood of our people, _unjustly_, hunted us through the great forests, and as a result it has _united _us in a shared cause. For our greater good, in unity against our persecutors, we are a cause, and our cause lives within us all! We are made one! And so are the lines drawn for us!"

Fionnghal's voice broke on this last bit, but when she looked up at the _Egg Viper_ her eyes narrowed into slits. And when she yelled again her scream was loud enough to pierce the clouds themselves:

"We are _Theta Tribe_!"

These words struck the pair in different ways: Tatu sneered mockingly, but the wolf simply leaned back, bringing its hands down to either side of its body. It spoke softly:

"And, so—"

"We declare ourselves your enemy, here and now. And we'll have at it, for sure, when our paths cross again. So, if you wanna do this by the _book_—"

"Declarations precede hostilities," the wolf looked at Tatu as it spoke, spitting its words with acidic inflection. It looked back at Fionnghal. "In that case: we canines of the Dolamiram look forward to destroying you, animals of the Thallomoor…"

Sonic stood by throughout all this, arms crossed, lips screwed tight. He wasn't scowling, but it looked like that might be because he was _beyond _the concept entirely. Quinn could almost feel the hatred leeching off his body, and he had a feeling that most of it was directed at Fionnghal.

The wolf put its paw to one edge of its mask, which glowed like a halo around its metal ear; it looked up at the _Egg Viper _as it spoke.

"There is a development. This has become a contest of the tribes. By the Code, battle is currently... 'disfavored'. Nevertheless, we await your orders..."

Quinn swallowed hard. Seconds passed like hours. He kept his eyes on the brass-faced wolf, but then suddenly the _Egg Viper _above them roared anew.

If he were less exhausted, Quinn might've considered wetting himself.

III.

The _Viper's _speakers echoed with the wolf's words. Eggman clasped his hands behind his back, head bowed before the window. Bellesailes approached him.

"We can't allow this _insult _to stand!" She snarled. "That rat, that chaffinch... and that _hedgehog_!"

"They played their hands," Eggman said. "And for now this idiotic Code ties _mine_..."

"To hell with the wolves! If the Elites won't budge then order the _Regulars_ to attack! We'll crush the lot of them!"

Eggman shook his head.

"The wolves wouldn't stand for it, Bellesailes; it's their way. We cannot afford to lose them."

The man faced away from the window and began walking off.

"Dasy, withdraw."

"Destination?" The android asked.

"Beyond the reach of chaffinches and stones, please."

Bellesailes stood up against the window. The _Egg Viper_'s powerful enginesroared beneath her. The damselfly snarled, staring down at the hedgehog below. She shrieked, slamming her fist into the glass wall. This failed to crack the glass, but did manage to put a big dent in the supportive metal brace along Bellesailes' slender fingers. She held that fist tight, seemingly oblivious to the busted metal plating and the pale yellow blood oozing out of her knuckles.

Eggman turned and noted the damselfly's injury without a hint of surprise.

"I'll add that to your repair list, along with the prosthetic wings."

The Dame looked away, scowling.

"Save the supplies. I'm sure we have more pressing needs back home..."

Eggman shook his head.

"None I can think of, offhand—"

Bellesailes crossed her arms.

"I don't _want _new wings. Not until I've avenged my old ones. Not until I've seen that hedgehog _bleed_."

"Sonic the hedgehog has the power to kill you, Bellesailes. And with you being _wingless_ I have no doubt that he would succeed, if he were so inclined. For now you must agree _not _to engage him—"

"What's the difference? I'm expendable, aren't I? I'm not like your precious canines in the _Elites_! You _can _afford to lose me, can't you?"

Eggman stared at the Dame, emotionless, for quite some time.

"Yes," he admitted. "But, then, I don't _want _to."

Bellesailes crossed her arms, a chastised pout on her face. She stared down at her lanky legs.

"Bellesailes—"

"I won't go after the hedgehog," she grumbled. "But I won't accept any prosthetics until I've _earned _them!" She stormed off, heading for the ship's lower decks. She stopped just short of leaving the room:

"And I apologize for my outburst. And I'm sorry you couldn't get what you needed out of that little human juvenile."

Eggman toyed with his greasy moustache, shrugging.

"I don't know about that, my dear. In a way, I suppose _I _am..."

IV.

Quinn's legs trembled quite visibly until he was entirely sure the leviathan was rising up into the air. Within seconds it had turned on its axis, and then the mighty _Viper_ roared off, moving towards the interior of the Dolamiram.

The brass-faced wolf moved for his dune buggy, but then he turned to face Sonic:

"Speedster: if the Thallomoor now lays claim to a living tribe, this might serve to 'complicate' your neutrality—"

Sonic's brief answer to the wolf was entirely crude, but likely matched his level of anger.

The wolf barked at Tatu to get into the buggy, which the armadillo did. With a parting scowl he closed his door and then all three vehicles sped off across the ashen terrain.

Not long after this Brady stumbled into their midst. The sloth moved awkwardly over the uneven ground, exhausted. He tossed a large, heavy-looking missile launcher down at Fionnghal's feet before sitting down himself.

"Ooooh: that's a lot of wasteland to cover. Can see why they call it a waste of land, though. What a dump!" He motioned to the rocket launcher with his head. "Oh, and enjoy your new paperweight; somehow the thing's been totally shot to hell, electronics and all..."

"Why carry it back up here, then?" Fionnghal asked.

Brady stared at the ground for a good, long while.

"Probably 'cause I'm an idiot, I guess." He looked up. "Although I'd assume we should take a look at the thing to figure out how in the hell Eggy managed to pull off that little parlor trick. Oh, yeah, and unless I'm _totally_ delirious, I may have just heard an even bigger idiot— er, _potential _idiot, that is—announce our _tribehood _to all of the Dolamiram?"

Fionnghal rubbed her forehead.

"Yes: Asher's gonna be pissed, I know..."

"At least he'll have a chance to digest the news before you see him again: your _voice_ likely made it all the way back to the Thallomoor."

Then, for the first time, Brady noticed Sonic standing beside Quinn.

"Ah: and it's the Banshee. Guess that explains the... well, the _lack_ of bodies, here..."

Sonic scowled at the sloth.

Brady didn't take the hint.

"Well, Speedster: I guess we're kinda on the same team, now, aren't we? Temporarily, at least..."

Sonic stepped forward very slowly, and _very_ deliberately.

"Uh, if it's not too much trouble: please don't kill me..."

Fionnghal approached the hedgehog:

"Listen, Sonic: I had no choice at the time. It was the only way to get the Delts off our backs. I know you don't want to have a tribe—"

The hedgehog spun around to face the rat:

"And I _don't_ havea tribe! I don't care _what _you do with the Delts— whether you play nice or play rough— and you really wanna list the Thallomoor as your home address? That's _fine_. I'm _not _your Speedster, and I'll _never _be part of your 'cause'. If the Delts come looking for you in my territory then you're fair game: they either drop you all, or drive you all out; it's all the same to me!"

He stalked off, turning around only once.

"And _Qui'ntroshe_..."

Quinn looked up at the hedgehog.

"You take a punch like a champ," Sonic muttered.

He didn't want to, but he couldn't help it: Quinn's lips twitched upward in a partially-unwilling smile.

"I wasn't even _afraid_, either."

Sonic smirked.

"That's 'cause you didn't see it coming." The hedgehog's face turned to stone as he looked back at Fionnghal. "_You _won't, either: when the Eggman comes to collect. You didn't save anyone today, Pew; you just postponed judgment day..."

The rat crossed her arms.

"If that's all I could do, then I'd be fine with that, Sonic."

He scoffed.

"'Hope' is a damn cruel trick to play on someone. Well, if those civvies are at least smart enough not to fall for your cheap tricks, then maybe they'll at least be clever enough to save _themselves_..."

"_Hopefully_, Sonic." Fionnghal's furry face was a wall of dirty ice.

The hedgehog scowled at her in reply, and then he was gone in a flash.

Katchy's voice sounded behind the rat:

"I don't really like him," he admitted.

Fionnghal merely stared at the dust-strewn horizon, her eyes trembling lazily.

"He's an acquired taste," she said. The rat turned to face both Katchy and his sister; she looked the male up and down slowly, speaking as if commenting on the weather: "And, uh: you're_ dead_, you know..."

"I feel pretty good," he mumbled.

Fionnghal looked over to his sister, her expression vacant:

"I seem to recall him taking a lump of shrapnel to the torso, right? About the size of a coconut..."

Catchie cocked her brow, staring dumbly at Fionnghal, as if the rat had spoken in her lowspeak.

"Not that _I _saw..."

"I got _grazed _a bit," Katchy admitted. He motioned to a tear in his shirt; at tiny bit of blood shone underneath. "Flesh wound, you know..."

"Oh I got a few of those, myself," the rat admitted.

Brady chuckled. He reclined in the desert ask.

"Heck, at this point the lot of you are nothing but a collection of scrapes and bruises. There're some animals buried down there, somewhere, but they're under an awful lot of boo-boos and dirt!"

The rat looked down at Brady. "Builds character, you know. You want some?"

The sloth waved a paw, shaking his head.

"Ah, no! No, see I'm suffering with you all in _spirit_. Believe me: that's enough."

"Fair enough." Fionnghal again looked around, popping her spine as she groaned.

"Scrapes or not, everybody _survived_," Quinn said. "Pretty incredible, huh?"

"Oh, yes," Fionnghal said. "And now we can get everybody home, so that Asher can shoot me right in the face..."

III.

Fionnghal remembered only bits and pieces of the journey home. Time passed unevenly; in places she felt herself stumble, and thus was jolted back into consciousness, but otherwise she was a shuffling corpse. More than once she nearly planted herself square in the dirt, and it was Quinn, walking by her side, that gave her a light jostle or two to keep her trundling on. In one respect this made sense: he was the only one of the group who had gotten anything approaching a decent night's sleep in the past few days (even _if_ that sleep had come at the hands of a powerful sedative forced upon him).

But, in another respect, it was also pretty sweet of him.

The 'K-dogs' disbanded from the group as soon as they were near the Thallomoor camp, scurrying off in a most shifty fashion. Even though they'd done their jobs reasonably well, that kind of furtiveness didn't sit well with Fionnghal. She was already suspicious of the pair— being canines and all—and they certainly weren't helping their case by actually _acting _suspicious, were they?

It didn't matter. If Fionnghal had the strength to care, she might have cared. But, as it was, she most certainly did not.

A ribbon of pipe smoke curled around a tree outside of camp; Thadesch rounded the trunk and hobbled up to Fionnghal, wobbling quickly as he could.

"Thadesch: unless the very firstwords out of your mouth relate to a bed that you've prepared for me then I'm gonna cut you in half..."

But the toad's flabby face was uncharacteristically grave.

"Fionnghal," he whispered. He held out a small stack of papers, treating them like eggs.

The rat picked-up on his sense of urgency. She willed her brain awake long enough to take a look at the documents.

And within a few seconds she didn't need to 'will' her brain awake at all.

Her head _smoldered_.

She looked up at the toad with dangerous eyes, narrowed to razor slits.

"Location?" She growled.

Thadesch pointed behind him:

"Conference at the main camp. The scouting party just got in from the deep woods and they're being debriefed, so naturally—"

The rat stepped around him, her feet tramping loudly over the moldy earth.

"Thank you, Thadesch."

"Do you need me to—"

"No," Fionnghal shook her head as she walked. "The spymaster's part in this is done. Now it's time for the _assassin_..."

IV.

The modular table was set up beneath the fronds of a particularly large tree, terribly out of place in the bucolic splendor that surrounded it. Asher sat at the table's head, his knee up on a nearby stump as he toyed with the bandaging over his chest. Tails sat to one side, engrossed in a ladybug's progress over the tabletop. Spindletop sat opposite Tails, bundled up under a mess of thick blankets, shivering fiercely (this despite her fur coat and at least partially-intact overalls). The poor cheetah had seen better days, to be sure, and her usually messy cowlick was now a full-blown disaster of epic tangles and knots, complete with bramble and dirt caked all along her upper body. M'quelo stood opposite Asher, busily presenting his report on the deeper parts of the Thallomoor woods.

Asher immediately got to his feet when Fionnghal sauntered into view, with Brady and Quinn behind her. They must have been a sight, probably just as Brady had described: little more than a collection of scrapes and torn clothing packed under a thick coat of desert ash. If Quinn wanted to spit right now, his loogie would likely be solid mud.

"F—_Fionnghal_?" You're back? And you actually _did _it?"

The rat shrugged.

"Sonic gets half-credit, actually..." She slammed a long metal box down in the center of the table; her voice was as cheerful as a wood chipper.

"Well done, my dear!" M'quelo congratulated her, his artificial voice bubbly through the suit's speakers. The bulbous back head of the octopus's suit turned transparent, revealing the occupant himself, and he blinked his eyes at her warmly. "I myself had some luck in the bush." He motioned to Spindletop, who still shivered under her blankets. "Poor girl might've wandered for days if we hadn't stumbled upon her. So, you're sharing credit with the Thallomoor Banshee on our ops these days?"

She shook her head.

"Nope. The other half of the credit goes to _Thadesch_."

Asher squinted, scratching absently at one of the bony horns on his head.

"He went to the Dolamiram?"

"Nope," Fionnghal circled the table as she spoke. Behind her both Brady and Quinn stood silent, their arms crossed, pitch-black scowls on their faces.

"While I was off collecting Quinn, here, Thadesch was out saving _Filigree_."

"You mean your little secret project?" Asher crossed his arms. "Admittedly, you weren't very subtle about it..."

Fionnghal stepped away from the cottontail; she approached M'quelo and stood by his side. The octopus appeared quizzical.

And Quinn didn't even know that an octopus _could _appear quizzical.

"'Secret project', Fionnghal?" He asked.

"Back when I was captured by Tatu at the complex I overheard him speaking with his subordinate, and they said something ominous: they were talking about how, now that _I _was in their custody, they needed to secure the _other _target..."

Asher cocked his head.

"I don't understand..."

"Really? You're _really_ not that smart, Ash? They were looking for only _one _more leader to capture, and _not _two!"

The cottontail's eyes widened as he considered that deduction. He looked up at M'quelo, and then back at Fionnghal.

"Fi... you're saying that—"

"We _assumed_ Kakkari Nez was working alone to sabotage the complex. Well, Asher: that wasn'ttrue, was it? Tatu had someone _else_ working for him: someone who was, unlike Nez, beyond the very _thought _of suspicion. Nez couldn't have been working alone! He was in the perfect place to do the most damage possible. Hell: he even took out M'quelo without giving the guy a _chance _to counterattack or defend himself." Fionnghal turned her head to look at the octopus. "Isn't that right, M'quelo? You weren't even able to land a glancing blow!"

The octopus's ringed face twisted with displeasure.

"To my everlasting shame: I never saw it coming..."

"See? So just who was behind the _real _show here, Ash? Do _you_ have any idea?"

By now Asher's arms were crossed. The cottontail's normally stoic eyes burned.

"What are you saying, Fionnghal?"

"I'm saying that Thadesch got our answer for us, and it's in _that _box." She pointed to the metal case on the table. "Care to open it for us, Ash?"

The cottontail scowled at Fionnghal; he approached the box carefully, and ever so slowly raised the lid. As soon as he did he shut it tight.

"By my forefathers!" He coughed. "What the _hell_—"

"What? What is it?" M'quelo asked. "Speak up, Asher!"

"Rotting _flesh_!"

"Flesh?" The octopus mused.

Fionnghal stood between Asher and M'quelo; she dropped a mess of papers on the table.

"Not just any flesh: DNA's a match to one Kakkari Nez..."

Asher's eyes widened. "Nez! But how?"

"Thadesch's contact with Delta Tribe managed to get Kakkari's body out of the complex after the fighting. Or a piece of him, at least. And, Asher: what do you think Tails found when he did an analysis on that little piece of flesh, hmmm? What do you think Kakkari's skin was literally _dripping _with?"

"What? What did he find, Fi? Tell me!"

All at once the rat leapt to Asher's side and whipped around; she looked right into the watery confines of M'quelo's helmet:

"Poison, Asher: blue-ringed _octopus_ venom!"

M'quelo quickly took a quick step backward.

"But... that's impossible, Fionnghal."

"I know." The rat crossed her arms. "Especially since you never landed a _single _defensive blow to Kakkari, isn't that right? Isn't that what you've said? No, M'quelo: the blow you landed on Kakkari was _offensive_: it was a stab in the back, and you did it right before _you _sabotaged the e-grid!"

The octopus' eyes trembled, and then suddenly devolved into cold black pearls. His suit went completely opaque from head to toe, and then he leapt backward.

Fionnghal already had her sword out, and she darted straight for the octopus, swinging for his head. He proved too nimble, though, and she missed.

And that's when he overturned the conference table.

Brady pulled Quinn to one side as a chair nearly took out the boy's legs. Tails and Spindletop fell to either side while Asher hit the ground, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the airborne table.

Fionnghal swung for the octopus's suit once again, but suddenly a mess of colored lights flared from M'quelo's chest plate. The disorienting show made Quinn queasy even at range, and up close they hammered Fionnghal long enough for M'Quelo to spin her about and grip her in a strong bear-hug.

By now Asher had cleared the table wreckage, his sawn-off shotgun pointed right at the pair. M'quelo held Fionnghal up between himself and the cottontail, even as the rat struggled, throwing what Quinn assumed were incomprehensibly vile curses in rat lowspeak.

M'quelo put the rat into a one-arm chokehold, freeing one of his suit arms; the black glove burst off, exposing a writhing blue-ringed tentacle. He held this appendage near Fionnghal's neck.

Asher cocked his shotgun.

"M'quelo... how could you—"

"I'd prefer to skip that part of the script, if we could, Asher..."

The octopus's artificial voice was neither angry nor cocky. If Quinn had to pick any emotion to categorize the garbled, scratchy sound, it would be 'sullen'.

The cottontail's eyes trembled, either with hatred or hurt, Quinn couldn't tell. He guessed it was about equal doses of both. Asher nodded.

"As you wish."

Fionnghal continued twisting in the suit's grasp, even with the poison-laden tentacle up near her face.

"Shoot this piece of _scum_, Ash! Blow his damned suit out!"

Asher cocked his weapon.

The octopus's voice remained unsettlingly calm:

"Your weapon is loaded with buckshot, Asher, and not slugs. To incapacitate me, you would have to make hamburger of Fionnghal."

This seemed to strike a nerve with Asher. It didn't with Fionnghal, though.

"Forget it! Just _shoot _him, Ash. It's my own damned fault, anyway. I'm no bargaining chip! Drop this bastard!"

"Spoken like a true assassin," M'quelo said, never looking away from the cottontail. "She truly finds it so difficult to suppress that instinct. But then, she's still young. What of you, Asher? As a _leader_: how many bodies are you willing to bury needlessly?"

Fionnghal scowled.

"Then let me make it easier for him," Fionnghal yelled.

The rat twisted in the suit's grasp; Fionnghal struggled to press her face up against that deadly, poison-dripping tentacle. This caught M'quelo off-guard. He quickly pulled the appendage away from her.

And that was all the opening Quinn needed.

The chunk of metal nicked M'quelo's flesh, glancing to one side, but it was enough to slice deep into the tender tentacle. The octopus roared through his suit speakers in pain as a spurt of dark blue blood burst from the wound. He instinctively withdrew his tentacle into the suit, and that must've interrupted something in its wiring, because Fionnghal found her opening and slipped down underneath him. M'quelo tried to reach at her with his gloved hand.

But then the forest roared with the echoes of Asher's shotgun. Both barrels, too.

The suit fractured and blew out like a set of aquaria stacked atop each other. The water gushed freely, covering Fionnghal as she recovered her sword and leapt to her feet. She stabbed the watery innards of M'queo's suit with _Curtainrod_, and the blue-flamed sword sank clean through. She missed the octopus, however, and it must have been by inches, too.

Immediately two bulbous rockets rose up from the suit's shoulders. The suit's head was forcibly blown off the body, rockets and all, and as those boosters flared to life Quinn could see the octopus's many tentacles poking out the base of that helmet, huddled-up tight within the small space. The head soared up into the sky, and it was out of sight within seconds, fiery exhaust tails training in its wake.

Quinn lowered his slingshot and looked over at Brady.

"Okay: sucks and all, but that was probably the _coolest_ thing I've ever seen..."

Fionnghal watched the head disappear with an icy scowl. She looked down at the now-empty suit before her with disgust and kicked it, pulling her sword free and sending it tumbling lifelessly to the ground.

"She's gonna be one of the _hottest_, I'd think—" Brady said.

"Gotta say: animals don't really do it for me," Quinn grumbled.

"I meant by _temperament, _you speciesist little twit. Can't imagine she's gonna take this too well..."

Fionnghal raced up to Asher.

"I _told _you to shoot, Ash! Now where are we? The son of a bitch got _away_!"

Asher crossed his arms.

"We're all alive, Fi. And you can _help me _figure out all the damage he did to us, and how to fix it—"

"And _M'quelo_—"

"What about him? What can he do to us, now? It might have been nice to _question _him, Fi, but I wasn't willing to partially decapitateour organization just to gun him down. _Filigree _can't afford the waste..."

The rat still stared at him icily. Brady took it upon himself to rather inappropriately correct the cottontail.

"Uh, about that: we're kind of going by 'Theta Tribe', now. Not so much '_Filigree_'..."

Asher looked at Brady quizzically, then at Fionnghal. The rat's icy stare softened, and she looked to one side.

"Long story," she muttered.

"You didn't..."

Asher looked around at everyone else. The deep scowl on his face softened. He shook his head and walked off.

"You'd better just brief me on all this, Fi. In one hour, your tent..."

"Why not now?" She asked.

"Because you smell like octopus crap!" He snapped. "Take a bath, for everybody's sake..."

Fionnghal watched Asher storm off, and then she sat down on the edge of the broken table.

Brady shrugged.

"Seems to me he's got a point, Mistress—"

Fionnghal glared at him.

"Uh, not about the bath thing. I mean about the waste thing. You know: leaders are hard to come by. _Good _ones, even less."

"And I'm _that_ good, huh?"

"Eh, you're ballsy," Brady answered. "And you're down for the cause, 125%. Speaking freely, I couldn't call you any 'good' because you haven't been leading anyone long enough to tell. It's the potential I'm talking about, ma'am. Seems to be an awful shame to waste you on something so trivial."

The sloth walked off, shaking his head.

"You're speaking _awfully_ freely, Brady..."

He nodded.

"I know that, too. You'll see why after your little chat with Asher..."

She cocked her head, but Brady didn't explain himself any further.

Spindletop slowly walked up to the rat's side, still buried deep in her blankets. The cheetah's copper eyes trembled, and she ground her teeth together robotically. Her black feline nose twitched absently.

"Fionnghal..." she whispered.

This seemed to snap Fionnghal out of her daze. The rat hopped up off the table and patted the cheetah's shoulder.

"Spindletop, yeah. My tent. I've got it there, okay? C'mon, let's go..."

The cheetah nodded absently, and Fionnghal began leading her off. She paused once to face Tails:

"Oh, Tails: take Quinn to see your patient, will you, please?"

The little fox nodded.

Fionnghal walked off with the cheetah, while Tails wandered away in another direction. Quinn assumed he should follow. The little fox spoke a bit as they walked, but Quinn couldn't pull enough context out of him for his words to make any sense.

"Right lower quadrant entry," Tails said. "Minimal vessel tearing, primarily gastronomic shearing, no kidney/liver involvement. Clean cut, and microbial contamination standard..."

The little fox looked up at Quinn, his face dismissive.

"_Child's _play," he asserted.

The pair moved through a dense collection of tents surrounding a central built-up section. Salvaged medical equipment lay all about this place in temporary storage. The nook was set-up as a crude field-hospital, and there were several cots arranged along one side.

The occupant of one of these cots drew an immediate response from Quinn.

"_Myrtle_?"

The sugar glider looked up as Quinn entered, a warm smile on her face. Her gigantic black eyes glowed with pleasant surprise.

"Quinn!" She lay propped on pillows, bandages covering his belly. She set aside a small book on horticulture as the boy rushed to her side.

"How?" He asked. "I thought that Dame commander _gutted_ you!"

Myrtle cocked her brow; those thick black lines along her nose twitched.

"This isn't a very delicate way to phrase it, is it?"

Quinn shook his head.

"Sorry but... I thought you were dead."

"It's alright. And it's all thanks to Tails. He's the best."

"Best? As in..."

"Surgery. No better hands out there. And he really has the best training there is."

Quinn blinked. He looked back over at the small fox, who was now preoccupied with following a train of small ants making their way across the tent flaps.

The boy realized that, at the moment, he was just too tired to care.

"I'm just gonna let that one go, for now," he muttered. He sat down beside Myrtle's cot.

The sugar glider smiled.

"No offense, but you look terrible, Quinn."

"Hmm. I'm a little worse for wear. But we 'naked mole rats' always look pretty ugly, don't we?"

Myrtle laughed, but instantly regretted it. She held her abdomen and chastised the boy:

"No jokes, please!"

"Anyway, I feel better than I look," Quinn admitted.

"And how do you feel? Good, huh?"

The boy looked beyond the medical tent, at the bustling activity of the Thallomoor settlement. He shook his head.

"Not even close. But, well, I think I feel _safe_, at least. And it's the first time I've felt that way since I got thawed, I guess..."

V.

Asher toyed with a few baubles on a makeshift table in Fionnghal's tent. He sighed, looking over at the dividing curtain.

"You're the one that suggested I bathe, Ash..."

Fionnghal eventually emerged from behind the curtain. She set a tubular stick down on the table.

"Didn't think you'd be quite so long, though." The cottontail picked up the tube and unscrewed the cap: a beige-colored sludge resided within. It had a decidedly pungent scent to it. "Or get so hung-up on your feminine 'vanities'..."

Fionnghal snatched the tube away from him, scowling.

"We _brown rats _are never vain, are we?"

Asher chuckled.

"No. I guess not..."

The cottontail walked to the tent entrance and stared outside, arms crossed.

"Ash, about the whole 'tribe' thing—"

"You didn't have any choice, Fi. You weren't _given_ any, at least..."

"Tatu practically gift-wrapped that opportunity for me. All his bragging in front of the canines was a bonehead mistake. Look:I didn't exactly_ want_ to make us a tribe—"

"I think Tatu did. And I don't think _he_ made any mistakes, either."

"What do you mean by that?"

Asher closed the tent flap and faced Fionnghal.

"I was thinking about that device you saw Eggman use out in the desert: the weapon that disable Brady's rocket launcher..."

"What about it?"

"Eggman's figured out how to disrupt Mobian technology, and he knew how to do it from a good distance. That means he could have parked the _Egg Viper _right at our doorstep, disabled our e-grid, and offloaded his troops directly into the complex."

Fionnghal's brow furrowed.

"But he didn't need to: Tatu had his inside man. After M'quelo shut down the grid—"

"The Delta Tribe _Regulars_ attacked. They hit us hard, but they left plenty of escape routes, and our civvies had just enough time to escape before the Elites got wind of the attack and joined them. Odd, don't you think?"

"That just means Tatu's overly ambitious: he wanted to get all the credit for the raid—"

Asher shook his head.

"Fi, he suggested we call ourselves a 'tribe' the minute he met with us, and then when he was in public with the canines he _deliberately _crowed about breaking their honor code. He had to realize the wolves would immediately back down from the fight after that. That move wasn't 'boneheaded': it was _stupid_. Say what you will about him, Tatu is _not_ stupid..."

"But what the hell is his motive, then?"

"Think about it," Asher said. "Eggman comes up to our compound in the _Viper_, he demands Quinn be turned over, and satisfies all the wolves' requirements for 'notice'. We say no, 'cause we assume we've got the e-grid on our side, and when we refuse Eggman zaps the grid: the _full force _of the Delta Tribe Elites would then come pouring into the complex, _immediately_…"

Fionnghal stared down at her bare toes.

"In that case... it'd have been a slaughter."

"More than what we went through, at least. I doubt _anybody _would have made it out alive." Asher crossed his arms. "_Tatu _might have doubted that, too..."

Fionnghal looked up.

"You can't seriously be suggesting that Tatu's the _good_ guy in all this?"

"No. But I think Tatu might've done the wrong thing for the rightreasons. " Asher looked to one side. "Still: I wonder what he promised M'quelo to get him onboard..."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Maybe I can ask that armored bastard that then next time I see him."

"And M'quelo?"

Fionnghal opened her tent flap; she faced Asher with a venomous scowl:

"That'd be a one-sided conversation: next time I meet M'quelo I _will _kill him."

Asher shrugged, nodding.

"And, Fionnghal, about Quinn, and the Eggman... did he manage—"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"I've talked to Quinn about it: I don't think Eggman could get what he was looking for out of Quinn."

Asher again nodded.

"I guess killing Quinn _would _have been pointless, then. And turning him over wouldn't have cost us anything, either. That's quite lovely. Hindsight's a beautiful thing..."

Brady lumbered up to the tent, walking ungainly across the uneven forest floor. He stopped in front of Fionnghal and Asher, holding his combat spike claws in one paw.

"Ah," he said, "good to find you two together. Makes it easier."

"What's on your mind, Brady?" Asher asked.

The sloth held up his claw extenders, then set them down at the tent entrance.

"Thought you should know: I'm out as security chief. No surprise, really. M'quelo was my sponsor for _Filigree _in the first place. I knew him long before I ever joined up with you all and, so... well, with him... gone... you know. Kakk was a good security chief, and I guess he was always loyal, after all. You should have the chance to pick the personnel you can count on." Brady looked over at Fionnghal. "And I know you've got problems with my mouth, too. Not always my finest asset, truth be told. So, I thought you both shouldn't have to worry, anymore. And I'd still like to stay on, as a civvy, if you'll have me. I could be put to use elsewhere, I'm sure."

Asher and Fionnghal exchanged glances. The cottontail cocked his brown, and the rat nodded.

"We don't mind frank opinion, Brady." Asher said "Especially if it helps put things into perspective. That can be something a leader lacks, surrounded by people too sniveling to speak up."

"But _M'quelo—_"

"You're _not _M'quelo. Yeah, he did vouch for you, but just because he turned on us doesn't make you damaged goods. Flowers can grow just fine out of manure, you know..."

Brady perched his lips.

"Thanks... I think…" Again he looked at Fionnghal. "But I know you've gotta be eager to see me out, right? I mean, there's some obvious tension you've got with me, I think..."

Fionnghal picked up Brady's claws from the ground and pushed them against his chest.

"Maybe. But it seems to be an awful shame to waste you on something so trivial. Don't you think?"

"We're not taking your resignation," Asher said. "We're dead-low on trained officers, and maintaining order is a top priority right now. We need you as chief right now because you're the best animal for the job."

Fionnghal smiled.

"God help us all, _Brapes_."

The sloth took his claw extenders and nodded slowly.

"Then I'll stay on, I guess. Maybe just until you find someone better..."

"That's settled, then," Asher said. "So, anything else, chief?"

Brady nodded. He looked at Fionnghal, smirking.

"Just a minor point: you smell terrible, ma'am. Didn't you just bathe?"

The rat grit her teeth.

Asher suppressed a chuckle.

"Uh, she's got a peculiar body lotion. Complex scents, you know..."

True to form, Fionnghal was less amused:

"You could smell it better if I had you in a chokehold, if you'd like."

"A sleeper, you mean?" The sloth chuckled as he toddled off, one eye on the rat. "Doubt it'd be effective: a scent like that probably works better than smelling salts."

"All things considered, he _does _have a certain charm," Asher said.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Just keep your eyes open for that 'someone better'," she grumbled "All things considered, I'll probably end up killing him at some point..."

"Maybe let me know before you do that, at least. That is, if you feel you could _trust_ me with that information."

Fionnghal looked over at the cottontail, her head cocked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Asher shook his head, walking off for his own tent.

"You know damn-well what I'm talking about, Fi: your little secret operation. Look, it doesn't matter. We got M'quelo, our civvies are safe— at least for now— and we've got a little time to plan our next move. Still: don't pretend that we were in this thing together, because we _weren't_."

He turned around to face the rat, arms crossed.

"You weighed me against M'quelo, and in the end you just didn't trust me. Maybe that was smart, Fionnghal, but I won't pretend it's not insulting as _hell_. And, smart or not, that kind of thing's a double-edged sword: how can_ I_ trust _you_, implicitly, when you act like that to me?"

Fionnghal stared at the ground; she had no immediate answer for him. But as the cottontail walked off she gave him one:

"Whoever said that _implicit_ trust was ever a good thing, Asher?"

He glanced back at her one last time, looking Fionnghal up and down.

"We don't _need_ trust, huh? Fine: then we can spend the bulk of our hours planning when and how we're going to bury our daggers between each other's shoulder blades." The cottontail rounded a row of tents, his voice carrying back to her: "That seems a _very _productive use of our time, doesn't it?"

VI.

Black clouds passed by in the night sky. The outside windows crackled with frost. Bellesailes' face lay pressed up against that cold glass for a brief moment before she pushed off the wall and attacked her sparring post anew: she sliced the central post with a flurry of brutal sword strikes, leaving her blade embedded in the side while she pummeled the thick rods radiating from the body with her bare hands. With a savage overhead strike the damselfly sheared through three of the rods at once, leaving herself panting like a dog, snarling at the devastated training equipment.

"I don't think there's a name for _that _technique," Tatu said.

The Dame looked up, startled. Tatu stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall. She snarled at the armadillo, but then relaxed, slumping down against the far wall.

"_Rage_," she answered. "And it's not productive, I know..."

"I heard that you're leaving the _Viper_ at the caldera's edge?"

Bellesailes nodded.

"I'm off to rally all my units; we need to be prepared to mobilize at any time."

"Why aren't you staying aboard until we get to Genocide City? You need your prosthetics—"

"I _need _to get my girls ready to crush all the enemies of Delta Tribe! What I need is to get back to my command!" She looked down at her massive curled toes, still snarling. "I need... I need to atone for my failure at the complex..."

"That was on _me_," Tatu said. "You were acting under my orders, Bellesailes—"

"I waited too long to _disregard_ those orders. Subordinate or not, it was my responsibility to assess the situation and to realize that you were acting idiotically!"

Tatu pursed his granite lips.

"_Sir_," Bellesailes grumbled.

"It's stupid to punish yourself like that—"

"It's _smart _to leave a visible reminder about your mistakes, isn't it?"

Tatu stepped into the room, his massive stone head shaking.

"That's what _scars_ are for, and we've both got enough of those, Bellesailes. What you're doing right now is crippling yourself for no damned good reason. Listen to me: you're _worthless _to the Eggman like this! He needs a _mobile _Dame Commander."

The damselfly swallowed, looking to one side.

"He hasn't _ordered_ me to go under the knife—"

"And you damn-well know he _wouldn't_. Even if he knows that it's in your best interests. But that doesn't matter, because it's in _his _best interest that you knuckle-up and take those prosthetics. Otherwise? You're denying him a war-asset, and you're being quite the selfish little martyr. Why the hell would you cripple _him _like that?"

Bellesailes' copper eyes burned. She looked like she might leap off the floor and tackle the armadillo, but ultimately she rested her head to one side, grunting.

"Fine, then. I'll stay on into Genocide City," she mumbled. "I'll take the prosthetics, but it's because I _want _them. If anything, they'll make it easier to get my revenge..."

The armadillo nodded and prepared to leave, but he paused once:

"Also... I'm sure with the material we have it'll be possible to make them, well, at least _something_ like they were. What I mean is: your wings were, at least as Dame wings _go_, they were quite... beautiful—"

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"Never my best feature," Bellesailes said. "All I hope is that the replacements might come with some added 'features': maybe something to make them more functional than my originals. In the end, Tatu, that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

Tatu again pursed his lips, as if he might disagree, but the armadillo seemed content to leave off there. Bellesailes called after him:

"By the way: I know _exactly _what you did at the _Filigree _complex. I know your dark little secret, Tatu: the reason you withheld information from the Elites."

"And just why did I do that, Bellesailes?"

The Dame stood up.

"You wanted glory. You were looking to put down our enemies and take all the credit for yourself. Isn't that right? I am _right_, aren't I?"

The armadillo crossed his arms.

"So what if I did?"

"It's bloody shameful, is what. The Eggman could pull you from your commission if he heard you admitting to that kind of petty gamesmanship."

Tatu nodded.

"And then you'd be able to work with another leader for the Regulars. Is that what you want, Bellesailes?"

The Dame crossed her stick-like arms. Her voice became deathly serious:

"Do you know _why_ they call him 'Eggman', Tatu?"

"Of course I do," he grumbled.

"Do you know _why _they call it 'Genocide City'?"

"We all do, Bellesailes. What's your point?"

"My point is that man _deserves_—"

The damselfly's throat twitched; she wrinkled her slit nose awkwardly and shook her head.

"My point is that our operations have to succeed," she said. "And that's more important than earning some meaningless amount of glory..."

She stepped quite close to Tatu, staring him in the eyes like a mongoose might eye a cobra.

"The next time you want your 'glory', or your 'honor', or any amount of 'recognition', you can take it from me: I'll give you my part of the credit for _anything _you want, no exceptions. And I mean that. But don't you dare jeopardize Eggman's operations ever again."

Tatu met the damselfly's gaze with an iron face.

"Is that all, Bellesailes?"

The dame faced the window.

"Yes, _sir_..."

Tatu lumbered off.

"But, also...thank you," the Dame added.

"For what?" He asked.

"About the prosthetics. For putting things into perspective," she said.

"Likewise," the armadillo grumbled. He stepped into the outer corridor and closed the door behind him.

Perspective, huh?

At this point that word was nothing more than a sick joke. Tatu leaned against the wall, his grizzled ear to the door, and listened as Bellesailes went at it again with her sparring post.

He'd made an awful mess of things, but at least now things were 'manageable'.

But even that word might be a bit of a joke at this point, too.

Tatu lumbered through the _Viper _corridor, grousing. In all honesty, right now the only 'perspective' he wanted was the one that came from staring down the lips of an empty bottle...

"And something with less of a bite than a damselfly, at least," he muttered.

VII.

Eggman sat before the small chamber's window, cold starlight reflecting off his dead black eyes. The _Viper _shuddered gently as the ship body came to rest atop the back frame of a shadowy building Behind him, shrouded under a pink curtain and partitioning, an awkward mess of machines churned.

Dasy entered through a side doorway from the bridge, its wheeled base squeaked.

"You need oil, Dasy."

"_You_ need sleep, sir," the android extended one metal arm, a datapad in its slender fingers.

"What is this?" Eggman asked.

"The impact trench report for the vessel _Rainbow Runner_, as you requested—"

"That was 48 hours ago, Dasy."

The android attempted a 'shrug' of its beaten-armor shoulders. It wasn't entirely successful.

"Due to the size of the vessel and the kinetic energy involved, as well as its shallow trajectory, my report took longer than expected. The trench itself spans three kilometers, broken in places where the vessel 'hopscotched'—"

Eggman looked up at the robot.

"Most expedient term," Dasy said. "In any event: its third successive impact with Mobian soil is the most interesting..."

Eggman scanned the datapad: it displayed a wire-frame topographical display, including a deep fissure in a section of hardscrabble land, cut by the crashing ship as it careened along the surface.

"These energy readings..." Eggman mused. "They're _subterranean_? 1.5 kilometers, perhaps. And preexisting structures? And an energy output... an output consistent with 'it'?"

Dasy nodded.

"By my estimate it must be a significant piece of the whole. Perhaps even an entire _facet _of the stone, itself..."

Eggman tossed the datapad onto the windowsill, scowling.

"We stay in the City for 48 hours. No longer."

"And after that?"

"We _hunt_."

Eggman rose, walking out onto the bridge.

"Have we finished our docking procedures?"

"Yes," Dasy replied.

"Send word for Bellesailes to be prepped in operating room one. I'll be there momentarily..."

Two masked wolves met Eggman at the docking room door and escorted him through a maze of corridors. He reached a room guarded by other animals, who stepped aside for the gaunt man. A possum in white scrubs came out to meet him.

"His condition?" Eggman asked.

"The subject's regeneration factor is finally kicking in on its own, although it was touch and go for some time. The operative who recovered him only managed to keep some of his limbs intact. And the toxin's 98-percent flushed. Prognosis is very positive at this point."

Eggman nodded, and then went into the room alone. It was dark, and streaks of light permeated the gloom from various monitors and medical equipment. A body hung suspended between all this, ringed up in awkward harnesses. It twitched absently.

Eggman pulled up a chair and sat before the figure, hands clasped on his pointed chin.

"Can you hear me?" He asked.

The body stiffened, but then a sputtering breath exhaled into the room.

"You can... how wonderful." Eggman leaned forward, his black eyes intense. "I'd like to talk about the circumstances that bring you here, amongst us, today. You might think it has _everything_ to do with me, and you'd be quite wrong. Oh, it has something to do with me: you're alive right now because of me. But you're near death because of someone _else_: an armadillo you might have heard of. I'd like to talk about that armadillo, just for a little bit, if you have the strength, as well as all those animals who claimed to be your 'friends': the ones who abandoned you to die like a dog. And that doesn't seem right, does it? You are _not_ a dog, are you? No, not a dog at all..."

The body twisted, grunting out a strangled, gurgling noise.

"Isn't that right, Kakkari?"

VIII.

Dusk came quickly to the Thallomoor that night. Quinn didn't manage to find a cot or a bedroll in the animal's chaotic little tent city, but he was just fine with that. He actually got an impromptu offer to join a tent, courtesy of one of the beaver juveniles. The buck-toothed little thing was no doubt excited by Quinn's novelty, but his parents' reaction to this offer clearly bordered on horror. Even if they didn't explicitly object, Quinn thought, it wouldn't be right to accept.

And anyway, all he wanted right now was to sleep comfortably, and without a bunch of suspicious eyes on him. Everything else didn't matter.

Twenty minutes later, huddled up on a straw bedroll, exposed to the elements and without a blanket, however, he was reconsidering. The boy crossed his arms and pulled his legs up against his chest, but still he got to shivering. Footsteps behind him eventually broke his miserable attempts at sleep.

"You're the odd boy out, tonight?" Fionnghal asked.

Quinn looked up at the rat.

"_Juvenile_, right? It's fine, but they were out of blankets everywhere, I guess."

"Mmm. We never keep than many around. Most of us have coats. The fur kind, I mean. Well, maybe we can solve both our problems here: all the other bedrolls are taken. Mind if I bunk with you tonight?"

Quinn sat up, scratching at his disheveled hair.

"Huh? But you've got a tent, don't you?"

The rat wagged her head, sighing.

"It's, uh, being used by a certain chaffinch tonight. And _every _night, for the foreseeable future..."

"Oh," Quinn nodded. After a moment he moved over to a corner of the roll, motioning to the open space with his head.

"Thanks," Fionnghal said. She dropped her sword and boots to one side and reclined on the tough bedroll, groaning with effort as her bruised body made contact with the bedding. She lay to one side and Quinn faced away from her, prepared to curl up into his fetal ball again when the rat shook her head.

"C'mon, don't do that. Just get over here, alright. And try to be an adult about it, if you could."

Quinn looked over at her; the rat held her arm up, leaving a nook for the boy.

"No, uh... it's okay," Quinn stammered.

"Just shut up. I'm basically a big thermal blanket here, and it doesn't make any sense for you to lie over there and freeze to death instead of huddling up. That's basic physics, you know? And I promise I won't stab you to death in my sleep. _Probably_. Just get over here, unless you have your own physics equation that explains why you _shouldn't_."

Quinn cocked his brow.

"Uh, you got six months to listen to a lecture on wave-particle duality?"

Fionnghal scoffed at the boy, again beckoning with her fingers. Eventually Quinn rolled over, timid, backing up against the rat, allowing her to spoon him. At first he was as tense as a steel beam but after a moment his body melted under the radiant warmth of Fionnghal's fur. The awkwardness of the situation was no match for the rat's comforting body heat; ultimately Quinn even pulled himself closer in, sheltering his body from the crisp Thallomoor air.

"I never thanked you," he said. "For coming after me, I mean."

"Mmm," she grunted dismissively. "It was my fault that you ran. What I said to you before you left— about how I should have killed you— I didn't really mean it. At least, I don't think I did."

"That's comforting..."

"What I mean is that I'm glad you're still alive, Quinn. All that talk: I was just being angry at myself."

"You should probably be more angry at M'quelo now, right?"

"Oh I am, just a teensy, weensy bit. And that was good shooting back there, by the way."

The boy shrugged, jostling Fionnghal's arm a bit.

"I'm a natural. At least it _looks _like I am. Maybe I used to get into trouble back home. Maybe _that's_ why someone put me in a cryo tube and sent me into space..."

A long pause followed.

"We'll figure it out, Quinn. We'll get your memory working, again. At best it'll just come back on its own—"

"And at worst?"

Another pause.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Somehow we'll figure out where your people are, I promise. Until then we'll look out for you."

Quinn's tired eyes scanned the tree canopy above; a few twinkling stars peeked through the dark foliage, burning cold in the night sky.

"Of anywhere to be stuck," he muttered, "of all the stops on the Rainbow, this place isn't really the worst. And of anywhere to be left so... alone... and by my own _brain_, too..." The boy paused a moment, shaking his head. "It's just nice not to _be _alone, Fionnghal."

The pair remained silent for a long time, sleep slowly crawling into their bodies.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't suppose anyone's actually said this to you yet, what with all the... 'happenings' since you woke up. But I just wanted to tell you, formally: welcome to Mobius."

The boy smiled.

"Thanks..."


	9. Mobius Unraveled

"Mobius Unraveled"

I.

He hated cats.

Sonic admitted that to himself as the thuggish tank of a cheetah across from him slammed a freakishly large paw down against the table. Damn near spilled his coffee.

"The acreage you're offering is totally insufficient for the needs of Upsilon Tribe," he growled.

"You're lucky to be getting anything at all, kitty." Sonic lay back in his patio chair, letting the sun singe his furry face. "Besides: what the hell are you gonna do with all that lumber, anyway?"

The cheetah crossed his toned arms, smiling arrogantly.

"We're everexpanding, hedgehog, and ever building. Before long all of this earth will know the power of the Unica Plains!"

"Sooo: a giant scratching post?"

The cheetah scowled darkly.

"You would do well not to mock the cats of the Unica Plains, Sonic hedgehog."

Sonic smirked in reply.

"You'd do well to remember who you're talking to, Nix Acinó. Now, if you feel _slighted_, and you wanna defend your Plains' honor against the Thallomoor's, well..."

The hedgehog lazily extended two fists before his indifferent face, wiggling them about half-heartedly like a boxer on Quaaludes. It was a gutsy display, given the cheetah had about two feet on Sonic, and over fifty pounds of raw muscle.

Nix stood up, growling at the hedgehog while making what could only be described as a seriously rude gesture, but then he quickly stalked off down the cobbled street.

Sonic smiled, taking his coffee in hand and downing it in one gulp. The hedgehog's nose wrinkled, and then he sighed.

"I'd say I smell a rat, but that's not a rat I'm smelling," he grumbled. "Too dirty for that..."

The air surrounding the empty chair beside him shimmered, like a band of rippling heat waves, and then a hunched body emerged from all those swirling vapors; it was a chameleon. The creature chortled, its freakish tongue hanging out in the air while its eye stalks bucked with mirth.

"Oh, that hedgehog sense of smell!" The chameleon said. "Ah, but you must've _seen_ something of me, too, right?" He patted a small backpack strapped over his knobby shoulders; a pair of long tubes rose from the device, like radio transmitters. "Damned capacitors are all out of sorts..."

Sonic shook his head.

"The _nose_ knows, Bhelim."

The chameleon stood up and sauntered over to the edge of the patio; beyond the railing a cliff face loomed, and below that the gentle waves of a peaceful ocean lapped at a rocky beach.

"You certainly made the Upsilon Tribe Speedster go out of his way for this meeting. Unnecessary, isn't it? There had to be a more convenient place for a meeting. Doesn't the Unica Plains border your territory?"

"Not for long," Sonic shook his head. "I'm letting Upsilon Tribe clear-cut a small part of the Northern Thallomoor, and in exchange all those pretty kitties will have to empty all their permanent settlements within a ten-minute jog of my border."

"Sounds a little unfair to you..."

Sonic smirked.

"_My _kind of 'ten-minute jog'."

Bhelim scoffed.

"Now that sounds _completely _unfair to them." The chameleon moved to sit down again, but Sonic's dark glare dissuaded him. "In any event I'm sure that you're serving your land quite honorably, despite letting your neighbors deforest a part of it..."

"Wide borders make good neighbors," Sonic answered. "And _that _serves the land."

"Or the disagreeable recluse overseeing it, yes." Bellaim leaned against the railing. He watched as animals sauntered by in the streets beyond the small stone-faced café.

"I can see why you'd choose a place like Rocciaforte for your meetings. The seawater's quite soothing..."

"I don't care about that," Sonic said.

"Oh? But I thought you might. I mean, you're facing the ocean instead of watching all the hustle and bustle out in the streets..."

"I use Rocciaforte because it's a simple hour run from my territory, and it keeps me from having to deal with any unwanted guests—"

"Ah! And you're up to your armpits in those these days, aren't you? Oh, and what an _ocean _of trouble they must be to you!"

Sonic narrowed his eyes.

"You here on business, or pleasure, Bhelim?"

"I never vacation at the shore," the chameleon scrunched his leathery face. "The saltwater burns my eyes..."

Sonic stared at him for some time. Finally he motioned to the chair opposite.

"Spill it," the hedgehog grumbled.

"Oh, now Speedster!" The chameleon sat down. "_Price _before parted lips, dear boy. Shall we iron out our terms?"

"Depends entirely on the information," Sonic answered.

"Not a problem, here. The information in question relates to a certain 'good'. My cut would be a modest percentage _of _that good, assuming successful recovery."

Sonic shook his head, standing up.

"I don't deal in goods, Bhelim—"

He was moving to leave when the chameleon gripped his wrist; the creature's eye stalks writhed about like rearing worms.

"Oh, no, Speedster. You see, you will deal in _this _good." The chameleon looked down at Sonic's leg braces, paying particular attention to those glowing QEDs; Sonic followed his eyes. When both of their eyes returned to level Sonic slowly sat down again.

"You're talking about a fragment of the Master Emerald?" Sonic asked.

"Fragment? Ha! No, a real _doozy's_ been found," Bhelim answered. "It's what I'd call a 'goodly chunk', which is goodly news to anyonewho happens to use a Quantum Effects Discriminator on a regular basis. The bad news is that someone _else_ actually found its location..."

Sonic's right ear twitched.

"The Delts?" He asked.

Bhelim nodded.

"You certain?"

"Completely. I've got an anonymous source in Delta Tribe—a real duplicitous son of a bitch, no question, there— and he sold me the information for a pretty penny. Now, if I turn these coordinates over to _you_, all I'd be asking for is a little piece of the action..."

"As in..."

Bhelim leaned forward.

"A _sliver_ of the thing; just enough to knock-out a QED or two myself. Nothing fancy."

"Your cloaking generator doesn't even use Quantum Effects. Why do you need a Discriminator?"

"For my own business, of course." The chameleon stood up. "And I'm afraid no other payment will do. Well, what do you say, Sonic? Do we have a deal?" He extended his hand.

All things being equal Sonic hated chameleons even more than he hated cats. And that toothy grin from Bhelim— scabby nose upturned, bulging eyes writhing like greedy fingers sticking out his face— bled a certain demonic aura.

But just when did any harm ever come from making a deal with the devil, huh? Truth be told, Bhelim had a certain built-in safeguard to his personality: he was so obviously and completely untrustworthy that he was, in the end, _completely _trustworthy. The guy couldn't hope to hide his own sliminess and backstabbing nature from anybody, and as an ironic consequence he _had _to be on the up-and-up to actually do business with anybody. In the end Sonic wasn't worried about dealing with a snake like Bhelim. The dealers that _really_ worried him usually had faces like choirboys.

He shook the chameleon's hand very briefly, as if touching a hot stove, and then forcibly pushed it aside:

"Alright, chameleon: _where_?"

II.

Fionnghal sneered as the tree bark dug against her face. She pressed herself even tighter against the trunk, hand rooting inside the small knoll, blind.

"Don't things live in there?" Quinn asked. "You know: things that can bite you?"

"Yeah, maybe," she grunted. "But I bite back even _harder_." A snap sounded inside the hollow, and Fionnghal retrieved a melon-sized nut, glistening in its hard casing. She grinned, tossing the thing over her shoulder to the boy, who bundled it up in a satchel. He followed her as she moved on.

"They taught you how to bite in the military, too?"

"We're animals, you know. We've all got our instincts." She leapt atop a log and put her nose to the air, sniffing delicately. After a moment the rat wandered off in a seemingly random direction. "And I wasn't in the 'military' back in Sulumac'dun. The army didn't take little pups like me."

"Then who trained you?"

"My species has kind of an... 'interesting' history in polite society. We're a little restricted on what we're allowed to do, if you don't already have the connections to do it, that is. And I never knew my parents, which isn't all that uncommon in my species, either."

"You didn't have any family? No brothers or sisters?"

The rat looked down at the ground, lip in her teeth.

"I, uh... I had a brother. For a little while..."

"_Had_? What: he died?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"No. He... disownedme."

Quinn squinted.

"How could a _brother_ possibly disown—"

"As for my upbringing: I was raised in an orphanage, run by the royal family of Sulumac'dun. They cared for me there: fed me, clothed me, educated me, and taught me the 'proper' skills that an orphaned rat like me could use to actually benefit society. Again: we're a little limited on just _how _we're allowed to contribute..."

"Are all rats are treated like that?" Quinn asked.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Not exactly _all_," she muttered. "My species of rat is special: we're marked by bad blood..."

The boy wrinkled his nose.

"'Bad blood'?"

"Mmmm. There's a history of treachery and violence in us. We're a very war-like species, when left to our own devices. Generations back we fought against the founding of the Great City; we didn't want all the world's species to unite under the Royal Family's banner at Sulumac'dun. Hell, back then we fought against _anyone _we felt like, really. Stabbed our allies in the back, even. The royal family was patient with us, though. They did the best they could to civilize us, but in a way it's like taming a shark. There's just a really bad bent to our blood, that's all. It's dangerous, and it's an impulse that needs to be controlled..."

Quinn stopped walking for a moment.

"But... they punished allof you now, because of what your _ancestors_ did?"

"It's notpunishment," Fionnghal grit her teeth as she stuck her arm in another knoll. "If we were left to our own devices we'd get right down to no-good again: destroy ourselves along with anyone else in our path. It's our nature. And you can't exactly wash that kind of disposition away. But the royal family had the foresight to _hone_ it: they managed to put a lot of us to good use. Honestly, I'm thankful for that."

"Good use..." the boy narrowed his eyes. "On that security video I saw, when you all were talking about killing me—"

"Are you just gonna keep beating me over the head with that? You humans are so damned judgmental—"

"No: it's that you called yourself an 'assassin' on that tape. That's not what the royal family did, is it? They made you an _assassin_?"

The rat pulled another giant nut from the tree. She faced Quinn.

"It's an honorable profession, in its own right. Especially if the blood in your veins is, by definition, _dishonorable_. It's more than I could have ever hoped for, otherwise..."

"You were taught to _kill _people? And when you were a _child_?"

"Pup."

"_Whatever_," Quinn waved a hand.

"My species excels at it," she said. "That's natural, given our inclinations—"

The boy wagged his head.

"Wait, wait, wait a minute: you were all being discriminated against 'cause you have 'bad blood' and 'cause you would do 'bad things' on your own— like, I don't know: _killing_ people— and so the royal family raised a bunch of you to actually _become _assassins, and so that _proves _how bad you really are?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"You don't understand the system involved, Quinn. What we did in our order— the actual assassinations— they weren't 'bad things' because they were all deliberated, sanctioned and controlled by our political leaders. The greater good was always served, and so our destructive tendencies were being channeled into a _constructive _use."

The boy wrinkled his nose. That logic sat about as well inside him as a kidney stone.

"I don't expect a human juvenile to understand," Fionnghal said.

"That doesn't explain one thing," Quinn held up a finger. "You're in chargeof this group, right? Yeah, with Mister Asher, too, but you're one of its leaders. So how can you do that with all this 'bad blood' inside you?"

The rat shrugged.

"It's not ideal, maybe. I stepped up to help lead _Filigree_ because there wasn't anyone else at the time. And it didn't start out like that: it was Asher and M'quelo that actually founded the group. I was really just a gopher: I managed to drag a fair share of talent into the ranks: Thandesch, Myrtle, Spindletop, Tails, about half our engineers. After a while my recruits started assuming I was coequal with the other two. Really, it became official just because it was practical..."

"How'd you go about recruiting? They say you aren't very... 'diplomatic'."

"But I am shameless," she smirked. "About three-quarters of the recruits I lured in with favors and promises." She pointed to Quinn's satchel. "Case in point: these damned nuts we're collecting are prime delicacies to _chaffinches_..."

Quinn looked down at the satchel, brow raised.

"Ahhh," he muttered. "But what about the other one-quarter of your recruits?"

Fionnghal sneered.

"I have a sword that sprouts blue fire, and a mouth that makes very nasty threats. Good for getting wafflers off the fence, wouldn't you think?"

The pair moved off in the direction of the main camp. A distant explosion sent some ravens darting out of the treetops. Quinn recognized the reverberating boom.

"How do you know Sonic?" Quinn asked. "You said earlier that when Sulumac'dun fell you were 'reunited' with him in a tribe called 'Omega'?"

She nodded.

"We were both still juveniles when Sulumac'dun fell. When the Time of the Tribes began a bunch of the former leaders of the Great City formed Omega Tribe as the 'end all, be all' of the new order; it was supposed to extend the tenants of _Sylvilagus_ _Keratinous_: the royal family's order. Sonic and I ended up in Omega by our own paths. And Omega came to dominate all of the tribes, in part because they had something that none of the other tribes had: an artifact of immense power, formerly entrusted to the royal family in the Great City. They used it to exert influence, and to trade with the other tribes. For a while the whole system worked. But, then..."

Fionnghal looked to one side, shaking her head.

"Sonic left Omega Tribe after a disagreement. Something very bad happened. And then, a few years after that, Omega Tribe withered and died."

"It was Eggman, right?" Quinn asked. "Something to do with him coming to Mobius?"

"His people. It was very tense when humans first appeared on the planet. When they came over the Rainbow, right out of the blue, it shocked the hell out of everyone. Eggman's people were scouts, you see, and they were looking for resources, maybe trying find a patch of land to call their own..."

Quinn crossed his arms.

"Right, I think I know how this kind of story goes..."

Fionnghal looked over at the boy. She parted her lips, but ultimately remained silent.

"Eggman's people attacked you all, then?" Quinn asked. "You were split up into these 'tribes', so they assumed that they could take you..."

"There _was _fighting," Fionnghal said. "At first it was mostly due to a bit of poor communication, and on both sides, admittedly. We didn't fight very long, at first, because we got to see each other's technology in action. The tech geeks tell me that, all things considered, Human and Mobian technology are about equally advanced, but in different ways, you know. We've got our spiffy little QEDs, yeah, but the humans have a more 'diverse' array of tech. What they lack in ability they made up for with creativity. You saw that with Eggman's nifty little 'action at a distance' gun. Anyway, every skirmish was a stalemate— all totally pointless— and so we started negotiations..."

"Not the best idea, negotiating with a guy like Eggman..."

The rat shook her head.

"Eggman wasn't in charge back then. He was..." Fionnghal crossed her arms and stared at her toes. "He had _other_ duties, then. Anyway, the humans sent a negotiator to deal with someone from our side: we had our own negotiator, and a good one, too. They worked so long together, trying to craft a working peace, seeing if a peace was even _possible_. In point of fact, the two of them really hit it off, actually. After a time our Omega Tribe negotiator gave his recommendation: it was a peace plan that involved a trade. A _big _trade. Our part of the bargain called for dividing our ancient artifact— the source of Omega Tribe's power— and sharing it with the humans."

Quinn nodded.

"Yeah, that sounds..." the boy stroked his chin for a moment, "kinda insane, actually..."

Fionnghal drew a deep breath, releasing it in a controlled sigh.

"It was a controversial decision, to say the least, and not everyone agreed with it."

"Like Sonic, right?" Quinn smirked. "I couldn't imagine how someone like _him _would take that kind of news."

The rat didn't nod in agreement. She looked to one side, instead.

"I suppose that if you asked him today, Sonic would say the negotiator was being hopelessly naïve. A lot of people agreed with that sentiment at the time. Many tribe members were certain that the humans would stab us in the back with their piece of the artifact's power. And then one of the other tribes tried to sour our deal: they attacked the humans' vessel, in order to keep Omega Tribe from getting into bed with a potentially powerful ally, I guess. The attack decapitated the humans' leadership; Eggman was left in charge, and there was almost no question that he planned to invade. After that, who wouldn't? But our negotiator..." Fionnghal sighed. "He still believed we could make peace. He was so _certain_..."

"What did youthink about it?"

"Didn't matter what _I _thought; I was just a rank-and-file grunt at the time. And there was another 'complication' involved. By now the humans had been around for a bit, and in that time Eggman had gone about peddling some of his robotic wares to certain species. It made them, well, indebted to him. After a time the politics wasn't as simple as 'Mobian versus human': Eggman had genuine allies on this planet. Our leaders had to settle things before they blew-up in our faces."

"You mean Eggman bribed species with those mechanical upgrades? Like the Dames, right? And all those other animals..."

"The Dames were a unique situation: they were the first 'demonstration' of Eggman's technical prowess. You see, the damselflies were already dying out long before humans ever reached Mobius."

"How come?"

"Genetic disorder. The damselflies are a very, uh, 'insular' group. Their genes don't get around that much— outside of their species— and so..."

The boy cocked his head in an adorable display of naiveté. Fionnghal sighed:

"They don't _mate _with anyone who's not a damselfly."

"Oooh," Quinn nodded. "Wait: mate as in..."

Fionnghal rolled her eyes.

"You see, when a mommy damselfly and a daddy damselfly love each other _very _much..."

The boy's face flushed.

"Yeah, I, uh, got it..."

Fionnghal made a few obscure gestures with both her hands as she spoke. The maneuvers looked unsettlingly violent to Quinn:

"...the daddy damselfly's pair of rear-facing cerci gently grasp the mommy damselfly's tender dorsal thorax—"

Quinn plastered his hand over his ears:

"_Got it_, _got it_, _got it_!" He screamed.

Fionnghal chuckled.

"Anyway: they didn't mate outside their own kind, and so they got burned for it. Genetic diseases breed like bacteria in that kind of stagnant gene pool, you see. It's kind of a cautionary tale _against_ tribal behavior, really. The damselfly disease is degenerative, and it spread fast throughout their entire species. It burns out all the nerves in their spines, amongst other places. Turns the females into spazzy quadriplegics who can't even breathe on their own. As for the males, well, it's a little more aggressive. Truth is: there _are _no more male damselflies..."

"Then... well, their species is dead, isn't it? I mean: no more _males_..." Quinn gestured abstractly with both hands, but quickly fell to blushing again. "You know what I mean."

"Eggman's first step was to fix the _females'_ problems: artificial diaphragms to pump air into their lungs, spinal stints to carry electrical impulses, powered armor on the outside, to keep the body safe and to amplify their metal spines' electrical signals. Eggman made all the damselflies what they are, today."

"The 'Dames'," Quinn whispered.

Fionnghal nodded.

"And, like you said, normally they'd be an evolutionary dead-end. Eggman's been toying with their genes, though. Ideally you could just take a Mobian female's egg and turn it _into_ a sperm. You do that and, hey, presto: babies ever after. But the damselfly genome is very complicated. '_Elegant_' is how Tails describes it. Even if it wasn't, I don't think Eggman's really too gung-ho about fixing the Dames' baby-problem, anyway: as long as he's 'working' on it, and as long as the Dames need their powered suits in order to live, they're pretty much dependent upon him, entirely." Fionnghal dug her boot in the earth, sneering. "Marvelous play, really: instead of just trying to _fix _the Dames' disease that human bastard turned them into walking machines, totally dependent upon him for their 'fixes'. The guy's like a drug dealer..."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"But then maybe I am, too, right? He trades in tech, and I trade in favors. Maybe that's two sides of the same coin. Anyway, there were other species that took him up on the offer. Mobians like Tat— I mean, _Tatu_. They came to Eggman for help with their own diseases."

"That big armadillo, you mean? Tatu looked pretty healthy to me..."

"His species is prone to a certain kind of flesh-eating disease. Tatu's got it, but Eggman's implants and medical treatments help keep it in check. It's treatable with Mobian medicine, but without all that innovative human tech Tatu would probably be in a wheelchair within a few years."

"And the wolves? What's wrong with them?"

"Uh..." Fionnghal scratched the back of her neck, her teeth partially bared. "They're... a warrior race, you see. And..."

"Did they have a disease before Eggman showed up, too?"

Fionnghal licked her lips.

"No," she finally answered. "They did not have a disease before Eggman showed up."

Fionnghal walked faster; Quinn had to trot to keep up with the rat. He walked abreast of her, dodging her swishing tail.

"Well, what happened to your tribe's peace plan with Eggman? Omega Tribe didn't actually go _through _with their negotiator's recommendation, did they?"

"Our negotiator was very convincing: he had a certain quality about him— a very warm, very open way of speaking. He could convince just about anyone to do just about _anything_. When he spoke to you, well, he was just so damned eager..." Fionnghal bit her lip. "What I mean is that you'd come damned close to believing in his point of view, too. And, in the negotiator's opinion, the humans could be trusted. But on top of that our leaders _needed_ an out: they were ready to accept a deal. We held a ceremony— very momentous, and all— and everybody watched as we prepared to divide the artifact. It was delicate work: the thing was volatile if you didn't handle it properly, and damned if the air wasn't thicker than blood that day. Honestly, most of the tribe expected Eggman to run off with his piece of the pie and then blast us apart; it'd only be natural, after all. By this point Eggman had enough troops on his side to make one hell of an invasion fleet. It was really inevitable that _someone _would step up and put a stop to the ceremony..."

"Was it Sonic?" Quinn asked. "He kept Eggman from taking the artifact, didn't he? And that's why he had to leave the tribe?"

"It wasn't Sonic, but it _was_ a hedgehog: a girl. She was the daughter of one of our leaders. Opinionated little thing, as I remember her. She had the guts to do what most _everyone _wanted to do that day: she raced up to the platform and put a stop to the artifact division, yelling at the top of her lungs about how insane it would be to put any trust in the Eggman..."

"Good for her," Quinn grumbled.

Fionnghal swallowed hard.

"But, she... she didn't do it _right_. She knocked away the cutting equipment in one swoop, but doing that destabilized the whole thing. The physics escape me, you know, but it was a hell of a sight. That hedgehog girl, she didn't realize something was wrong until the screech— and that terrible pillar of light..."

The rat closed her eyes, stopping momentarily.

"Time stood still for a moment. Really, it did. When it began again... well, I don't remember anything but the explosion. Vaporized the girl outright— right on the pedestal— and it sent pieces of the artifact scattering into the sky. They fell all across the planet like rain: thousands of shards dotting the ground..." Fionnghal crossed her arms. "The fighting began again immediately after that. And all that constant warring took its toll. Eggman set up shop in the Dolamiram caldera— made a home for his 'Delta' Tribe— and as the years passed Omega Tribe just fell apart at the seams. Sonic was the first to leave. See, that girl hedgehog— the one vaporized in the explosion— she was his sweetheart..."

The pair reached a line of tents on the outside of the camp. Fionnghal sat on a nearby stump; Quinn set down on his haunches in the grass.

"_Sweetheart_?" The boy whispered.

The rat nodded.

"I remember him on that day: he was right there, right up near the platform. He tried to stop her from running onto the pedestal, but... he wasn't fast enough, then..."

Quinn looked down at his grass-stained shoes.

"So Sonic hates Eggman for what he did, but he also the rest of Omega Tribe for what _they _did? Does he blame you all for killing his girlfriend?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Only he could tell you who he hates. But, in a way, I think the person Sonic hates most in this entire world— the one he really blames for his girl's death— is the Omega Tribe negotiator."

"So what happened to the negotiator?" Quinn asked. "Why doesn't Sonic just track him down and beat some sense into him?"

The rat looked into camp, appearing to stare at nothing in particular. She shrugged her shoulders.

"It'd be pointless: just unearthing dead bodies. We lost a whole lot when the tribe fell apart. _Everybody_ lost a lot. To tell you the truth, Quinn: I don't think the negotiator exists, anymore."

Brady lumbered up to the pair, nodding at Fionnghal.

"Mornin', Mistress, ma'am." He cocked his burly head back at camp. "Thought you should know: Asher's got himself a little scouting party. He's gonna investigate the remaining territory behind the deep Thallomoor. You know: try to get to the stuff M'quelo's group didn't reach."

The rat crossed her arms.

"How deep are we talking?"

"'Deep as we can get', is what he said. You know: given that we're now a tribe, apparently, and homeless, and running low on supplies for our civvies, and at war with the most powerful union of creatures this planet has ever known..."

"Point taken," she grumbled. "Good to have escape routes, I guess..."

"What's Mister Asher hoping to find?" Quinn asked. "I mean: _this _part of the woods is bad enough..."

Brady shrugged.

"Well, evidently there's a big gully that runs out behind the Thallomoor's eastern edge. Prehistoric canyon turned green. Lush place, they say, if a touch dangerous. It's supposed to breed plenty of helpful plants. Y'know: foodstuffs, medicine and the like."

"You're talking about the Momus Trough?" Fionnghal said. "Thathellhole? The poisonous plants outnumber the good ones ten to one. That damned place is old, too. _Eerily_ old. It's crawling with... creepy-crawlies..."

Quinn cocked his head.

"'Creepy-crawlies'?"

"It ain't particularly well explored," Brady admitted. "And it's got some unpleasant legends to it. Hey: there's a reason it's not part of the Thallomoor Territory. Even the Banshee stays out of the Momus. But that's part of why Asher's running the recon. We've got our backs to the wall here; we really need to know the lay of this land. Anyway, like I said: I just thought _you_ should know."

"Does that mean Asher _doesn't _want me to know?" Fionnghal asked.

Brady shrugged, looking to one side.

"Couldn't say—"

"Did he tellyou to tell me about this trip?"

"No."

Fionnghal scowled.

"Then you _can _say, can't you?"

"Suppose so," Brady grumbled. He nodded at the rat, and then lumbered back for the camp. "Anyway, they all leave within the next hour, if you're inclined to come. Or not, you know..."

The sloth left Fionnghal and Quinn in their clearing. The boy looked up at the rat, his brow furrowed.

"Why doesn't Mister Asher want you to know about his trip?"

"I think he wants a little space from me right now. We're not doing that great, the two of us. Seeing how I thought he could be a traitor, and willing to sell-out his own people to the Delts. Kinda puts a damper on our working relationship."

"So, you won't go?"

Fionnghal shook her head, again standing up.

"I'll give him all the space he wants, but diving headfirst into the Momus Trough without me isn't the best public policy. No, I have to go."

Quinn stood up at well.

"Can I come, too?"

The rat considered the boy, but ultimately shook her head.

"The Trough is no place for juveniles. Besides, you've been through quite a few things the past few days. Relax: take a load off for a little while." Fionnghal picked up their satchel and handed it to the boy. "Oh, and give all these to that preening chaffinch," she grumbled.

Quinn held the satchel, staring down at it awkwardly as the rat walked off.

"But... what exactly am I supposed to do around here?"

The rat shrugged.

"I dunno. 'Juvenile stuff', I guess. Been a long time since I've been one, so I can't give any pointers. Try not to leave camp, at least." Fionnghal walked off, but she smirked as she moved, wrinkling her nose. "Know what, Quinn? I will give you _one_ pro tip..."

"Yeah?"

"The aquifer springs are to the north."

"Why is that important?"

Fionnghal turned her head.

"Because you've been through quite a few things these past few days, and a bath is _not_ one of them..."

The boy flushed.

"You don't have to be rude about it," he grumbled.

"My nose isn't that great by itself, you know, and I could barely sniff out all those nuts without your musk getting in the way. Really: how can someone so small make such an awful scent?"

Tails lumbered past the pair at that moment, hefting a large piece of some indescribable medical equipment in his gloved hands. The little kit paused briefly as he walked, rubbing his bandaged forehead against the casing, scratching a wicked itch.

"Sweat glands," the little fox said. "Attracts bacteria to the skin. Disgusting, kinda. Fascinating, too." Tails looked up at Fionnghal. "At least his _apocrine_ glands are inactive; that scent would be... overpowering."

"What's an 'apocrine' gland?" Quinn cocked his head.

Tails hefted the device back into the air with a grunt.

"You wouldn't likely know," the little fox said. "What with being 'furless', I mean."

Quinn crossed his arms while the little fox toddled away.

"That joke is getting really old," he muttered.

"Take a bath, and rest up," Fionnghal suggested. "We'll be back from the deep woods before you know it, no sweat."

The rat moved off for camp. Quinn screwed up the nerve to call out to her:

"F— Fionnghal?"

"Yeah?"

When the boy didn't answer right away Fionnghal stopped and turned her head; Quinn was staring at the ground, kicking a foot.

"What is it, Quinn?"

"You... uh, do you promise?" The boy barely had the courage to look the rat in the eye for half a second.

Fionnghal was at first surprised, but then she smiled warmly.

"Yeah, I promise. And we'll be careful. Hell, _I'm _the deadliest thing that's probably ever going to go traipsing through the Trough." She continued walking off. "I really pity any 'creepy-crawlies' that come looking for us!"

III.

The northern aquifer was clogged with juveniles playing water games. Quinn felt decidedly out of place amongst the splashing, laughing youths, and not just because he lacked a fur coat underneath his jumpsuit. He didn't really feel up to 'playing' at the moment, and so instead he went to 'moping', wandering aimlessly along the fringes of the camp.

A cacophony of hammering and drilling drew him down a row of trees; Spindletop the cheetah was hard at work, furiously beating a sphere-shaped piece of metal into the ground. Eventually she tired and squatted backward, as if to sit on the ground, but she must have forgotten about the slope in the land: she went tumbling backward, instead. She landed upright, but less than perfectly oriented.

"Huuuh?" She blinked, genuinely mystified with her new position on the ground. When she turned her head and saw Quinn staring down at her— arms crossed and brow cocked— she beamed.

"It's the _simian_!" She chortled. "Fearless little Furless!"

"It's _Quinn_," he growled. "And you're, uh, Spindletop, isn't that right?"

"Righty-o, you are!" The cheetah got to her feet and bounded back over to the metal sphere on the ground. She again set to work, drilling its sides into the ground.

"You feel better, today?" Quinn asked.

"Hey: I _always _feel good!" She pointed at Quinn with her drill, an overly-sunny grin spread across her patchwork face.

"You're all better from before? 'Cause yesterday— when they brought you in— you looked a little… 'ragged', like you were freaking out, or something..."

The cheetah shook her head, dopey grin wide. She unscrewed the cap on a nearby bottle and guzzled it.

"Nah! Just too many trees around, is all. They're kinda disorienting."

Quinn watched the cheetah as she again took a long swig from her bottle.

"Too many trees? Really? Are you sure you're okay?" He asked.

"Oh, yeah, sure!" She got to her knees and began fiddling with the metal sphere. "Never better, in fact. Good thing, too: gotta have all my expertise focused on these nifty doohickeys. That's a good thing to have: expertise. If someone _without _any expertise tried installing 'em—"

Suddenly the front panel of the sphere snapped open, bathing the cheetah's face in green light. Spindletop's copper eyes suddenly bulged; she let out a whimper as a bright red dot settled onto her head.

It took Quinn the better part of five minutes to untangle her from the mesh net. She'd landed a good fifty feet away, snared awkwardly between low-lying tree branches like a cheetah-skin hammock.

"Well, success!" She cooed. "I'd call _that _a successful test!"

"Kinda," Quinn grumbled as he helped the cheetah slip out of the net. The boy looked up at her with curious eyes.

"Spindletop, did you know Fionnghal from back in Omega Tribe? Is that where you met her?"

"_Omega_?" She chuckled. "Nah. Nope, nope. Mistress picked up me especially for _Filigree_. She knew me because of _my _reputation."

"You... have a reputation?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!"

"Other than being a danger to yourself and others?" He muttered.

Spindletop got to her feet; she picked up an errant drill bit and went to scratching at her head with it.

"Mistress talked to you about Omega, huh? Boy, were _they _in the pink, back in their day!"

"'Cause of their little 'artifact', right?"

The cheetah scoffed.

"Little? Master Emerald must've been _huge_, back when it was all in one piece."

"'Master Emerald', huh? Just what could it do that made it so special?"

Spindletop returned the mesh net to the spherical device, handling the thing with kid gloves, as if it were an ornery cobra.

"Master Emerald brings order to chaos, pure and simple. Didn't anyone tell you that our best technology runs on Quantum Effects?"

"You mean Quantum Effect _Discriminators_, right?"

The cheetah wagged her ruffled head.

"Nah, nah! Quantum Effects. Super cool. And super _strong_. Super easy to _make_, too. For us, at least. But, well, not super easy to _control_. See, it's like this..."

Spindletop paused in her work, and then she stood up, wobbly. Quinn thought she might fall on her rear, but the cheetah kept balance. She roughly grabbed the top of Quinn's skull with one paw. At first Quinn thought she was using him to balance.

And then he got a little freaked out that a five-and-a-half foot tall cheetah was gripping the top of his head with her big, furry paw.

"You're here," she said, gently squeezing the boy's head like a cantaloupe.

"Yeah," Quinn agreed. All he could do was stare up at one of Spindletop's partially exposed claws.

The cheetah suddenly motioned over to a nearby tree.

"And there's a tree over there, right?"

"Right."

"So, why aren't _you_ over there?"

Quinn thought about this for a moment.

"Because the _tree's_ overthere. And I'm _here_—"

"_Exactly_!" Spindletop bopped her fingers down on Quinn's head. The boy winced.

"Exactly _what_?"

"You're not over there because the tree's there and you're over here. But it doesn't have to be that way. No law in the universe says that. You _can _be over there, if you want. And, somewhere out there, you _are _over there. And that tree is over _here_, somewhere. And somewhere I'd be someplace else, too; somewhere I'd be _someone _else. Somewhere _everything_ is anything else. And somewhere everything is anywhere. You see: everything is everywhere, _somewhere_."

Quinn managed to back away three steps during this spiel; he became very concerned that the cheetah knocked her head against a tree during her flight.

"What does all this have to do with your technology?"

"Quantum Effects force all the 'somewheres' to happen right _here_." Spindletop extended one finger, raised prominently above a closed fist. "Infinite possibilities inside of _one _probability. Like I said: waycool!"

"You lost me. Really, you did. But even then: something like that is _easy _to do? I can't even _understand_ what it is you're doing—"

"Quantum Effects are easy to _make_. I didn't say they were easy to _control_. Point of fact? Without anything to control it, your average Quantum Effect is about as useless as a ten megaton warhead." The cheetah stroked her neck absently. "Well, I mean: those aren't _always _useless, I guess." She snapped her fingers. "_Constructive_! That's it: without any kind of control the Quantum Effects are really, really, _really_, uh, 'unconstructive'."

"Is that where the Discriminators come in?"

"You betcha! Discriminators make all the incoming 'somewheres' make _sense_. Lotsa, _lotsa_ different kinds of energy in your average Quantum Effect— 'natch— and the Discriminators keep all the energies... uh, _discriminated_."

Quinn stared down at his shoes; he was so far over his head that he was seeing clouds. But from the sound of things the ditzy cheetah was, too. The boy decided to move their conversation along a bit.

"Just what do the QEDs have to do with this 'Master Emerald' thing?"

The cheetah chuckled.

"_Everything_!" She said. Spindletop took a wicked swig from her bottle before continuing. "The Master Emerald was kick-_ass_!" She winced, looking down at the boy. "Er: kick-_butt_, right? It was _made _of QEDs, or at least the stuff you need to _make _a Quantum Effects Discriminator. So, then: need a QED to regulate that awesomely-built Quantum Effect you made? Lop off a piece of the emerald. Heck, it grows _back_, you know..."

"It does? Uh, it _did_?" Quinn blinked. "Just what kind of 'emerald' was this thing?"

"A wickedly sciency kind of emerald, for sure. How'd it get made? Dunno. Probably just a leftover piece of awesome from when the _planet_ got made. Who knows? Like I said: wickedly sciency. Well, the ancient Mobians who first dug it up thought different: _they _said it was wickedly, uh... _blessed_. They said it was made by the Beings Who Came From Before..."

At these words the cheetah tried wiggling her furry fingers in front of Quinn's face, her voice warbling with mystery. At least Quinn _assumed _that was the intended effect. The boy crossed his arms and cocked his head at Spindletop.

"Er," she fumbled. "I thought that a nice ghost story would need effects—"

"I'm... like... _twelve_—"

"Right, right, right, whatever. Anyway, ancient Mobians worshipped the thing. 'Natch, right? They'd worship anything that glows... and can re-grow any of its parts when cut... and maintains a perfect, gem-cut surface no matter what... and is virtually indestructible against conventional weapons..." The cheetah again paused. "Huh. Guess they coulda picked a worse thing to worship, really. Anyway, those cave-dwelling Mobians got to thinking that the Master Emerald was made by some group of great beings, and it was part of a larger set scattered somewhere way out there. They called them the 'Emerald Makers'."

"'Emerald Makers'?" Quinn said. "Seriously: you're making this up, aren't you?"

The cheetah shrugged.

"_Somebody _did," she said. "Eh, nonsensical divines aside, eventually we Mobians got to using technology, and then we got to discovering Quantum Effects, and then— a few burned out craters later— we got to figuring out that those Quantum Effects needed controlling, and the Master Emerald was the key to doing it. Easy as pie, really. I mean the food, not the number, 'cause the _number's_ actually really compli—"

"Wait a minute: who the heck first got the bright idea to try using a magic, regenerating emerald to power their freakish doomsday experiments? What kind of sense did that make?"

Spindletop shrugged her shoulders, adorably indifferent.

"Who first decided to eat an oyster?" She asked. "Dunno: but they're _delicious_. Oh, and especially with a dab of lemon juice right in the middle—"

Quinn grunted, looking off to one side.

"This world is _seriously _messed up," he growled.

A gruff voice sounded right behind his head.

"You got no idea, kid."

The boy shrieked, collapsing to his knees out of instinct. When he looked above him he saw Sonic's face leering down at him. The hedgehog's arms were crossed indifferently, in a display that Quinn might've called 'badass nonchalance'.

_If_ he weren't sort of pissed at the moment.

"Don't do that!" Quinn snapped, getting back to his feet. "Aren't you supposed to make a ton of noise wherever you go?"

"When I _want _to," Sonic answered. He looked over the cheetah.

"_Banshee_!" Spindletop whipped her arms out to either side. "Hello, Banshee!"

Sonic looked the wobbly cheetah up and down.

"I've had enough of cats today. What's your name, anyway?"

"Spindletop," Quinn answered.

Sonic glowered at the boy, and then he looked at the cheetah.

"Spindletop," she answered sunnily.

"I mean your _other _name. You a Kurteni? Or an Acinó? Honestly, I wasted my whole morning talking to an Acinó, and I'd rather not repeat the experience—"

"_Spindletop_," the cheetah crossed her arms over her chest. Her face suddenly took on the most wounded expression, as if she'd just touched a molten-hot stovetop. The copper pools of her eyes quivered, rippling with some impossible fear. She reminded Quinn of a child, and a very little one at that.

"My name is _Spindletop_, Banshee..."

Sonic crossed his arms.

"I meant the name from your Tribe—"

"_Theta_! Yessire! That's my tribe! I'm a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool uh... Thetan, or whatever..."

The hedgehog shook his head.

"You're as deluded as the rest of your Mistress's crew..."

"Well, hey, I mean: I wouldn't call any of us _deluded_—"

Suddenly a pair of tiny fox ears appeared in the tall grass across from the trio; Tails burst from the weeds, racing up to Spindletop and jumping up and down in front of her:

"Help! Help! We gotta fix my sequencer! It's broken! I was sequencing..." the kit scratched the bandage on his forehead. "Uh... if we don't hurry I'll forget the rest of the genome. Ten-thousand base pairs; _lots _of work!"

Tails pulled Spindletop away from the pair. Quinn watched them run off.

"He's trying to remember ten-thousand different things?" The boy said. "Okay: that _is _kinda deluded..."

Sonic shook his head.

"_That's _the one guy in Pew's crew that isn't totally deluded. Tails _can _remember that much."

"How?"

"He's got good genes," the hedgehog grumbled.

"What was up with that, asking Spindletop about her 'real name'? You mean 'Spindletop' isn't her real name?"

"It's one of them, probably," Sonic said. "It's a well-known fact that a cat must have three different names. They all do. Whatever. Who cares if she wants to keep her other two secret?" He looked down at Quinn. "As for me, I'm looking for the rat; where is she?"

"She went with Mister Asher into the Momus Trough, whatever that is. They're exploring it. You wanna go track her down?"

Sonic shook his head.

"It can wait," he said.

The hedgehog paced the tree line, his eyes scanning the metal spheres left by Spindletop.

"They're making themselves at home, aren't they?"

"I guess they've got nowhere else to," Quinn said.

"Mmm," Sonic grumbled.

The hedgehog abruptly walked off, leaving the boy alone in the clearing. Before long he stopped, turning his head.

"I'm surprised you didn't go with them," he said. "Too scary for you?"

Quinn crossed his arms.

"No. I'm _Quin'troshe_, remember? I'm not afraid."

"So...?"

"Fionnghal said I should stay."

Sonic scoffed.

"The rat's looking out for you, huh? Kinda like putting Tails in charge of a henhouse..."

Sonic walked back over to the boy.

"Just so you know: back when I called you 'Fearless', it wasn't a compliment. It was supposed to be an insult, really. The only individuals I've ever known who are completely without fear were either idiots, or people who didn't have anything to lose from dying. You're a juvenile, and most juveniles think they'll live forever—"

"So you're calling me an idiot?" Quinn grumbled.

Sonic shook his head.

"No. Well, _yes_," he said. "But there's the other thing, too: you behave like someone who doesn't have anything to lose, because in a way you've already _lost _your life. You woke up in this nightmare world without any past, probably without any future— sorry to say— and so you act like someone without _anything _to lose."

The hedgehog cocked his head, quizzical.

"By the way, I've been curious. Tell me this: how does that feel? How does it feel to know that your entire past has been washed away? To not remember anything: the good, the bad, the in-between? How does it feel to have that blank slate for a past?"

Quinn's eyes got to trembling; he thought the hedgehog was goading him. But then Quinn noticed the sincerity in Sonic's voice, and the genuine probing glow in the hedgehog's eyes. The boy relaxed and stared down at his feet. He took a moment to come up with an honest answer.

"Empty," he whispered. "I feel empty. And cold..."

Sonic nodded, looking off to one side.

"That's too bad," he muttered. "I would have thought..." he closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I would have thought it might feel _euphoric_." Sonic returned his gaze to level. "My point is that you act like someone who's got nothing to lose, but that _isn't _the mature way to act. Right now your head's all twisted up with this infinite knot of a problem: who are you? Where are you from? What was your life like? You can't unravel it all, and so you're acting like it doesn't matter what happens to you. Maybe the best way to unravel your knot is to not _care _that it's knotted up in the first place."

"You're saying I shouldn't _care _that I can't remember anything?"

"I'm saying you should _enjoy it _while it lasts..."

Quinn stared down at his feet.

"That... that is really uplifting. And _really _freaking cynical..."

"My point is that you can choose who you want to be here on Mobius. So ask yourself this: 'do I wanna spend my time here in a coffin'? Just something to think about, kid."

Quinn crossed his arms.

"I think I understand—"

"No you don't," Sonic shook his head. "But if you think about it long enough you might. And if you _live _long enough to think about it, too..."

Sonic retrieved a y-shaped piece of metal from a small pack on his back; Quinn recognized the thing immediately.

"That's from the throat of that creature: the wolf-monster back in the complex..."

Sonic nodded.

Quinn noticed a thick strap of cord threaded through either side of the metal prongs. The setup was instantly familiar to him.

"Is that a..."

Sonic handed the thing to Quinn, who brought the slingshot up to his face, examining the strange white luster at the center.

"That used to be a 'bone' in Houdstooth's throat. And, like almost all of Houndstooth's 'bones', it's got a QED in it."

Quinn retrieved an acorn from the forest floor and set it into the sling; he pulled back, feeling the tension in the cord. It felt good. The boy aimed at a tree, pulling back about as far as he would for an average shot.

Sonic casually looked behind that tree, his eyes scanning as far as he could see. He motioned to the center of the slingshot.

"Press your thumb against the light..."

Quinn did, and suddenly the dull white orb sparkled with renewed vigor.

"Fire it," Sonic said.

Quinn released the acorn, and at first it felt like any regular shot. But as soon as the acorn passed between the metal fork a flash of light arced between the prongs like a small bolt of lightning. There was a loud whistling noise, and immediately Quinn lost track of the projectile.

"Where did it—"

The boy narrowed his eyes; there was something different about the tree in front of him. A bright speck of light beamed from its center, about as wide around as an acorn.

"No way..." Quinn raced up to the tree and put his face to the trunk: the hole went all the way through, and the trunk must have been at least four feet thick.

He raced beyond the tree and found another trunk bearing a similar wound; what was left of that acorn lay buried at least a foot inside.

Sonic sauntered over to the boy.

"Well, not that impressive. But that _was _just an acorn…"

Quinn looked down at the slingshot in his hand, and then back up at the hedgehog.

"Why are you giving me this?" He asked.

Sonic shrugged.

"I don't like to waste my breath, and if I _don't _give you that then you won't live long enough to ponder my pearls of wisdom."

Sonic again began walking off.

"Keep in mind: as long as you're shooting regular stuff from that thing— and at _regular _speed— then you're an adorably mischievous juvenile being a nuisance to whomever you go up against. Most _everyone_ has a thing about killing juvies, when push comes to shove..."

The hedgehog stopped walking.

"But the minute you start using that QED against anything that's _alive_ you turn yourself into a legitimate target. If you make your enemies die, then you can die just as fast as anyone else."

"Is that why _you _don't kill?"

Sonic scoffed.

"I'm not gonna go over my body-count with you, kid. As for all those Delts: as long as I don't put any of them in the ground then I can say that I'm 'neutral'. To a point, at least..."

"Gotta be more to it than _that_," Quinn countered. "Fringe says she almost got shot down by a Dame scout that surprised her on her way out to pick me up from Eggman. She saw a rock conk the Dame out cold, and then the scout fell out of the sky, but she didn't hit the earth 'cause _you _were there to cushion her fall. Fringe said it looked painful, too. Messed up your quills and all..."

Sonic shook his head.

"Bad luck; that Dame just happened to land on me—"

"No: Fringe says you went out of your way to cushion her fall. And there weren't any other Delts out there, so no one would have known if you just let her hit the ground—"

Sonic turned around and got down to Quinn's level; the hedgehog's eyes blazed.

"But then she couldn't report back to her superiors on how _awesome _I am. It's the _little _fish I let live, kid, so they can tell their bosses that you don't screw with the Thallomoor Banshee. _That's _the only reason: I'm too goddamned _good _to need to kill every pathetic foot soldier I come across. You got that?"

Quinn backed up a few steps.

"Uh, yeah..."

Sonic again walked off, and again Quinn tempted fate.

"Uh, if you're so concerned, and all, then why hand a twelve-year kid a slingshot with the power to send _acorns _hurtling through tree trunks?"

Sonic turned his head.

"Because you may find yourself up against enemies who _don't _have a thing about killing juvies— or who feel that it's in their best interest to do so— and in that case I'd recommend you don't hesitate. Also, keep in mind: your enemies might be much closer than you think."

Quinn considered this statement.

"Fionnghal and I have talked about that. She _doesn't_ want to kill me—"

"You take that rat at her word," Sonic said, "and it means I probably _have _wasted my breath. Don't you dare trust her, or any of these make-believe pretenders. And I wouldn't go around advertising that you've got that weapon, either..."

Quinn followed Sonic for a few feet, screwing-up the nerve to speak.

"Sonic, before I forget: I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about your girl..."

The hedgehog again stopped walking.

"What?"

"Your girl from Omega Tribe. Fionnghal told me about her. I'm sorry..."

"What else did she tell you?"

Quinn shrugged.

"Only that she died 'cause your negotiator thought he could deal with Eggman."

"'Our negotiator'?"

"Yeah."

Sonic shook his head.

"None of that matters, anymore," he growled. "She's dead, Omega Tribe is dead... the negotiator is dead..."

Sonic looked back at the boy.

"It's a blank slate, kid. That's all."

Quinn nodded.

"Still, I'm sorry for what happened. And I will try to think about what you've said. I promise."

Sonic stared at the boy for a good fifteen seconds. A certain softness bleed through his black eyes. He then abruptly turned and stalked off.

"Do that. Or don't. Whatever. I couldn't care less what happens to you, kid. I just don't like to waste my breath. Or QEDs..."

Quinn stood alone for a time after Sonic left. When he tried to sum-up everything that just happened he could only find three words to describe it.

"That was... weird."


	10. Traitors

"Traitors"

I.

The way was cloudy, and the road was dark.

Well, whatever 'road' there was to be had. Not much of one at all, really.

The party skulked under a river of gigantic tree roots. They spanned the entire valley's floor, meters thick, and sometimes arcing many stories up into the air like rogue waves dancing on the water.

Right now, in fact, Myrtle desperately wished she were at sea. Or _anywhere_, other than the yawning black forest she shuffled through. Every inch their party covered felt like another step into the mouth of some impossibly horrible monster. At times the sky was so thick with roots and vines that it became difficult to see ten feet in front of her.

And, with a great gaping pair of nocturnal eyes like Myrtle's, that was really saying something.

Sometimes the only appreciable source of light was Mistress Fionnghal's sword, burning like an acetylene torch as she lopped off vines blocking their path. Asher walked directly behind her, lock-step with Chief Brady. The raccoon dog siblings walked on either side of the party, rifles at the ready. They both seemed as jittery as Myrtle.

Catchie took to walking close to Myrtle; she commented on the sugar glider's bandaged midsection.

"I can't believe they brought you out to do this. I mean, this kind of trek can be difficult for someone who's _healthy_, you know."

Myrtle nodded. She adjusted her halter-top, fighting the sudden urge to scratch at the reams of tight bandaging covering her otherwise bare stomach.

"But I _am _healthy. Mostly, at least. The way Tails stitched me up was like a miracle. I can't say how he did it, what with all the... 'layers' of damage. Honestly I'd rather not know. And about that: I wasn't ordered to come along. I volunteered. I'm needed, here."

"I would've thought you'd earned yourself a rest," Catchie said, "And I can't see why you'd want to go hiking into this place. It isn't exactly... paradise." The raccoon dog's eyes darted to the shadows beside them: some kind of face just barely pierced the gloom, leering at them. It was not describable, it was wholly unintelligent, and it was quite a relief when it disappeared.

Myrtle swallowed hard, answering in a whisper.

"Too much rest can be a bad thing. Out here at least I have other things to think about. Back in that stuffy medical tent there wasn't much to think about at all. Other than... you know... thinking about how I _got _there."

"You mean how you got yourself sliced open by that Dame commander? Sure, I guess that would be a lot to process, being gutted like a fish, and all that."

Both Myrtle and Catchie looked over at the latter's sibling: Katchy merrily sauntered along, head forward, teeth gnawing at a purple and white mushroom he must have found on the forest floor. Eventually the raccoon dog turned his head at the females, black eyes innocently oblivious to their soured mood.

"What?" He managed through the mushroom.

His sister sighed.

"Males," she muttered.

Myrtle rummaged through her rucksack; she produced a small bundle of mashed-up leaves.

"Take these," she told Katchy. "And sooner, rather than later."

"Why?" The raccoon dog finished swallowing his mushroom and stared down at the leafy greens.

"They should stop your heart from exploding. At least I _think _they will."

Katchy cocked his head.

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm a botanist," Myrtle answered quietly. "We don't really have a sense of humor."

Katchy looked between Myrtle's stone face and the leafy greens; he quickly stuffed the whole bunch in his mouth and chomped it down ravenously.

Myrtle picked up the pace, moving a bit ahead of him; Catchie stayed in lock-step with her and she caught the sugar glider sporting a rather self-satisfied grin.

"Lying little imp!" She chuckled. "That mushroom wasn't really all that bad, was it?"

Myrtle shook her head, baring a bit of teeth with her widening grin.

"Harmless enough. It makes for a very good soup, in fact." Myrtle spoke in a whisper; she looked back at Katchy, smirking. "But it's not _entirely _harmless: see, if you mix it with a certain _leafy_ _green_, well..."

Catchie frowned.

"You didn't just kill my brother, did you? I mean, I'd kinda have to object, at least a _little_..."

Myrtle looked at the raccoon dog, her black-striped face serious:

"No! No: nothing like that. I'd never actually _hurt_ anyone—"

"Relax, sugar," Catchie smiled. "I'm joking. Canines can do it, too. Just like botanists."

"Still, I can't believe your brother would just eat a mushroom from a place like this without thinking about the consequences; I'd guess that over two-thirds of the plants here are pure deadliness. Do you all just go around eating _every_ little thing you find off the ground?"

Myrtle suddenly stiffened, her body ripe with horror; she whipped her head around:

"Oh! I... I didn't mean to say 'you' as in, well, all _canines_. What I mean is that... I _didn't_ mean, you know, to say—"

Catchie stared off into the jungle. She wrinkled her black nose.

"Never mind," she shook her head. "I've heard worse, of course..."

"No, but _I _didn't mean—"

"Yeah, I know. It's okay."

The pair walked in silence for several minutes. Myrtle kept her eyes forward, watching Mistress Fionnghal hack and slash her way through the ever-darkening jungle.

"I have to say, I don't exactly feel as 'safe' here as I do in the Thallomoor camp," Myrtle whispered.

"Who says you're safe over there, anyway?" Catchie answered. "Didn't you hear about the ghost?"

"'Ghost'? What do you mean?"

Catchie smiled.

"You've been in medical too long. I overheard a couple of beavers talking just the other day: one of them said they were walking by the main supply tent the other night when they saw an awful sight: some pale-dead creature scampering off along the fringes of the torch light, dressed in a flowing sheet that made the rest of their body nearly invisible. The beaver only saw it from a distance, but when the thing noticed him it looked up with these terrible, bloody eyes. He says the thing's eyes burned like coals."

"Burning eyes? A member of Delta Tribe?" Myrtle asked.

Catchie shook her head.

"No way. The thing's body was bone-white, not a speck of metal on it. And there was the alert, too. Everyone poured into the clearing immediately, but the thing vanished into thin air. Now, the animals in Delta Tribe might be pretty cool beans, but they're _not_ chameleons..."

This talk brought a chill to Myrtle's blood. She continued on in silence for a time, until finally her curiosity got the better of her.

"Is if alright if I ask you a question, Catchie?"

The raccoon dog shrugged her burly shoulders.

"It's a free planet," she said. "_Mostly_, at least..."

"You— and your brother— why didn't you both join Eggman's tribe?"

"Like all our fellow canines, you mean?"

"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable. You don't have to answer—"

"We're not sick," Catchie said. "We don't have any need for Eggman. That's your answer. Not allcanines are sick, you know. And not all canines are like the wolves. We raccoon dogs aren't even that closely_ related_ to the wolves. Why would we join Delta Tribe?"

Myrtle stared down at the ground, her eyes uncertain.

"I'm only curious," she said, "but... you never thought that maybe you _should_?"

Catchie stopped walking; Myrtle did likewise.

"Do _you _think we should?" The raccoon dog asked. "Do you think we're being traitors to our own kind? You think my brother and I should just run off and get fitted for silver masks? Why not? And then your tribe would be rid of the dirty doggies? No more canines gumming up the works? Is _that_ it?"

Myrtle clasped her hands in front of her waist. She shook her head.

"That would make me sad. I like you, Catchie. And your brother, too."

Catchie's noise 'un-wrinkled'. She stared down at her own feet.

"I'm sorry, Myrtle. I can be sensitive, at times. It's just that my brother and I... it isn't easy, being who we are. Nobody really trusts us— let alone anyone _here_. They do call us traitors to our kind, everyone, as if that's what we are. The truth is, with the way we've lived, well, we don't really _have _a kind. And, frankly— with _you _being who you are— you shouldn't really like us at all, should you?"

Myrtle cocked her head, her face deceptively innocent.

"Me 'being who I am'? And just what's wrong with a _botanist_ liking canines?"

Catchie fought off a small grin spreading over her lips; she lost.

Myrtle reciprocated the grin.

Soon Katchy caught up to the pair; he sauntered past the females, bobbing his rifle at the hip.

"You two get any sappier and I'mgonna come down with diabetes and you'll both start ovulating in sync. Don't think either of those scenarios is a pretty picture..."

The ladies both frowned.

"Out of curiosity," Catchie said, "just what _is _gonna happen to him later? What did you feed him, anyway?"

Myrtle looked off to one side, grinning mischievously.

"I'd never spoil a good trick by telling the secret," she said.

"That's for _magicians_, you know."

"And botanists, too."

II.

After two brief rest stops and a bitter argument over directions the party again moved on, Chief Brady in the lead. Mistress Fionnghal and Asher traded a few icy barbs at each other while Brady cut a swath out of the droopy foliage ahead of them.

The bickering between Asher and Fionnghal got much worse as the day wore on. Most of their argument was a downplayed volley of passive-aggressive jabs, the gist of Fionnghal's being that Asher was an idiot for not properly mapping the terrain as they went along, and Asher reminding Fionnghal that he hadn't invited her to come on this trip in the first place.

Brady cracked a few jokes now and then, gently chiding 'mom and dad' for fighting in front of the 'children'. Myrtle didn't know how he could be so blasé about the tense mood in the air; to be honest it scared her a great deal the way Mistress Fionnghal and Asher seemed to be at each other's throats every five minutes. It actually made the poor sugar glider so anxious that her knees started getting a rubbery feel to them. She told Catchie so.

"I think the way they're both going on is putting _everyone_ out of sorts," Catchie whispered.

"But you'd think that Chief Brady would be scared too, and not just cracking jokes."

The raccoon dog shrugged.

"Maybe that's just how the Chief shows that he is afraid. I mean, he can't just come out and _say _it, can he?"

"That'd be honest," Myrtle replied.

"That's probably the _last_ thing you want to see in a leader," Catchie grumbled.

"Do you mean honesty, or fear?"

"Take your pick..."

Suddenly Mistress Fionnghal stopped walking, seizing up as if she'd been frozen in place. Her tail whipped through the air like a windsock, smacking the side of Asher's face.

"Ow! What in the—"

"_Shhhh_!" She hissed.

Brady immediately stopped swiping at the jungle vines and crouched at the ready. The raccoon dog siblings readied their rifles and Catchie motioned for Myrtle to crouch in the grass, which she tried to do, but her midsection burned fiercely as she knelt down.

Fionnghal unsheathed her sword, bringing blue fire to the blade; she slashed it through the air, erecting a glowing blue wall before her body. She snarled into the darkness, sniffing loudly.

"How many?" Asher whispered.

"Two... at least. I _think _two..."

"At least three," Brady answered.

Fionnghal looked at the sloth.

"How the hell could _you _know?"

Brady motioned behind her with his chin. Fionnghal and Asher looked back at Myrtle and the raccoon dogs and their faces fell.

The ghastly looks on those faces frightened Myrtle; she looked at Catchie for some explanation, and found a red pinpoint of light beaming smack-dab in the middle of her forehead. Catchie looked to Myrtle, and she gaped as well. Both of them looked over at Katchy: another pinpoint of light shone on his forehead as well. The look on his face clearly showed that he'd noticed the red dots on the ladies' heads.

"Don't move," Catchie whispered to Myrtle.

That was very good advice. Of course, Myrtle couldn't move at that moment even if she wanted to. Her knees had turned from rubber into stone.

Fionnghal and Asher exchanged glances; the rat opened her mouth, as if ready to bark stern orders, but Asher tilted his head, staring down at her with reproach. No words passed between them, but Fionnghal's face twisted into a sour pout, as if chastised, and she shook her head.

"Right," she grunted.

Asher looked around the darkness before them, arms spread to either side.

"If you have business with us," he yelled, "then come out and meet us. And if your intentions are violent, you should know that if we are missed these woods will become so filled with our allies that you won't be able to take two steps without bumping into one of them!"

Nothing happened for a time, and then a ghostly voice echoed throughout the canopy high above them, like a whisper thrown into a massive, dead canyon:

"They can come. The forest is deep... the forest is old... it can bury _anything_..."

Myrtle shuddered as a bump sounded far, far overhead. Then another, from yet another place, and yet another. It was as if the tree branches above them had grown sapient and started moving about at will. Finally a figure emerged from that dark sky above: a black shadow darted from branch to branch, hopping off limber limbs with ease, soaring wildly through the air with each leap until it bounded off one last branch on its way down. The shadow slammed into the ground, landing on one knee, with its head bowed and a furry paw clawing at the earth beneath it.

The figure rose and pulled back a black cowl from its head: it was a kangaroo rat, and a male. It squinted at the party, bushy whiskers bristling as it wrinkled its nose.

After a rather dramatic pause Fionnghal opened her mouth to speak with this interloper, but the kangaroo rat cut her off, waving one paw through the air with a casual shrug.

"Hehe! I'm really just kidding, you know. Forest doesn't really bury anything." The kangaroo rat gave up his dramatic pose and leaned against a nearby tree. "Now, animals with _shovels_, and digging shallow graves, well..."

"Who the hell are you?" Fionnghal bared her teeth.

"What, me? Oh, my name's Ocotillo. Hiya, kiddies."

Asher scowled.

"What do you want with us?" He said.

"Well, for one, I'd like to know why you're in ourterritory," Ocotillo said.

"_Your _territory?" Brady cocked his head.

"That's a nice parrot you got there," Ocotillo snickered. He sauntered up to Asher and Fionnghal, and quite brazenly, but he kept himself just outside of 'sword-length'. He grinned at the pair while absently playing with the blue curtain of light in front of him, weaving his paw along its glittery surface. "And here's a free tip for you: if you're going to go trespassing on land that's spoken for you might want to be a bit more subtle about it." He cocked his head at Myrtle. "Heck, we could smell the wound on that sugar from a mile away."

"This isn't your territory. _Nobody_ claims the Momus Trough," Fionnghal said. "It's uninhabitable."

"It does kinda have that 'hellhole' feel to it," Brady whispered.

Ocotillo's grin deepened.

"Some animals have a healthier constitution than others; some animals do just fine roasting in hell." He shrugged his shoulders. "And, besides, I'd think the guys drawing beads on three of your heads at the moment have a slightly better claim to this land than you do—"

Asher shook his head.

"We're surveying, not laying a claim—"

"Just as bad; we're the type that doesn't exactly want our land 'surveyed'. You know what we _do _want, though? Maybe a little compensation for the trespass. What do you all happen to have on you, at the moment?"

"Bandits," Brady muttered. "How very dull..."

Fionnghal held up _Curtainroad_.

"I've got a five foot long broadsword," she said. "You want it? Come and get it!"

Asher nudged the rat.

"Fi..."

"You two certainly look self-important, don't you? So maybe you'd be valuable as hostages. There must be _someone_ out there willing to ransom you—"

"I'd die fighting, first!"

Asher ground his teeth together.

"_Fionnghal_..."

Ocotillo sneered.

"But then maybe you'd all be too much trouble to keep under wraps. Maybe we should just loot your dead bodies—"

Fionnghal set her feet into the ground, posing in a combat stance.

"_Then death_!"

Asher looked like he was about to reprimand the rat again, but a curt voice in the shadows cut him off.

"_Ocotillo_."

The voice was female, stern and cold, with a gravelly ring to it. It wasn't loud, but it made the kangaroo rat whip his head about immediately, looking behind him at the cloying darkness of the deeper woods.

Boots tromped over moldy earth; a shadowy figure emerged from the blackness. She was girded in a tight-fitting poncho from head to toe, dyed the deepest green and a perfect camouflage for the Momus. At first the figure looked elemental: like a living piece of the forest sprouted legs. In the blackness of the poncho's maw two red eyes burned. Whiskers poked out from the dark cowl, twitching.

"It seems your dirty rat longs for the grave," she said.

"Well, she might not speak for _all _of us," Brady muttered.

Fionnghal looked over at the sloth. She slapped the back of his head, grunting.

Instantly the figure in the poncho sprang to life, racing across the ground. She whipped around Fionnghal's blue curtain of light and shed the ruffling garment. The thing flew off in a mess of whipping cloth, burying Brady, Asher and Fionnghal's faces. Fionnghal immediately brought up _Curtainrod _to defend herself, but a short serrated knife caught her sword in its guard and twisted it. Fionnghal screamed as her hand bent to the side; just before her wrist snapped in two _Curtainrod _mercifully fell from her hand. The figure crashed into her, sending both of them tumbling to the ground.

The female ended up atop Fionnghal, pinning the rat with her knees, a second bladed weapon rested snug against Fionnghal's throat.

Myrtle's eyes widened.

"My god," the sugar glider whispered. "That... that's a pink-eyed white rat!"

The rat pinning Fionnghal wore a narrow combat vest and form-fitting black shorts. All the rest of her was a blinding, brilliant sea of white fur. The rat's coat seemed to burn like pure desert sand, even in the dank gloom of the woods. It was so out of place, so unexpected in the dank territory that Myrtle actually had to avert her eyes for a moment, as if she were looking into the center of a spotlight.

The rat leaned down very close to Fionnghal and whispered, her words so soft that Myrtle could barely hear them:

"Never abuse your soldiers," she said. "They'll likely be dying for you, someday."

Fionnghal ground her teeth together. She suggested something the pink-eyed white rat could do to herself. The rat responded with a quick, perfunctory head-butt, making Fionnghal shriek in surprise.

Asher instinctively reached for his sawn-off; Ocotillo whipped out a rusty-looking flintlock, cocked and ready. He shook his head at the cottontail.

The pink-eyed white rat looked up at Asher. She was older than Myrtle first thought, easily in her 40's, although hard living might account for the advanced age as much as anything. Her face, though immensely beautiful with its dazzling white fur, was marred with a very old scar down the forehead and bridge of her nose. A small band of light pierced the canopy and fell on her eyes; Myrtle noticed that, although both the rat's eyes were a dazzling deep pink, like glowing rubies, her right eye had a certain orange discoloration to it, as if it were a flawed gem.

"Don't worry about your little dirty rat, cottontail," she said. "I won't do her any _permanent _damage..."

Fionnghal landed a sucker-punch to the rat's face; the two rolled over each other, once, before the pink-eyed white rat came down on top again, in part thanks to a vicious knee she planted smack into Fionnghal's crotch. The pink-eyed white rat sank her blade even deeper against Fionnghal's throat. The poor brown rat writhed in pain, her eyes teary.

"You're impulsive," she muttered.

Fionnghal told the other rat what _she _was, using a four-letter word.

The pink-eyed white rat smirked at this, shaking her head. She leaned down even closer to Fionnghal and pressed her blade tighter against her throat. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then suddenly paused. The rat sniffed the air once, very briefly, and looked down at Fionnghal with a cocked head. Suddenly she buried her face against Fionnghal's upper chest, quickly drawing a good whiff of the brown rat's fur. When she was done she again looked at Fionnghal, paying deep attention to the rat's brilliant blue eyes. After a moment the pink-eyed white rat's smirk returned; she scoffed at Fionnghal.

"Interesting," she muttered.

Fionnghal suddenly looked away, turning her head and moving her eyes to the side, like a shamed child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

The pink-eyed white rat again scoffed, but then quickly leapt up and back-stepped about three feet. She sheathed her two short swords in a belt around her waist and put her paws on her hips.

"What an odd crew we've got here," she said. "Two canines, a sugar glider, a cottontail, and..."

The pink-eyed white rat looked at Fionnghal again, and again Fionnghal looked away. It was the most curious thing, Myrtle thought: after being brought to the ground, head-butted and then kneed in the crotch, only _now _did Mistress Fionnghal truly looked 'wounded'.

"...a brown rat," she finished. "A _very _curious crew, indeed."

The rat paced in front of Asher, Brady and Fionnghal. When she stopped she put one fist against her breast.

"My name is Perle," she said. "And I'm the Mistress of the Momus Trough. The land you're now walking through is _my _territory."

At this introduction Asher's face lit like kindling in the fire; he looked back up at the rat, squinting, and then his face contorted into a vicious sneer.

"Perle? _Perle_! No, your name is _not _Perle," he hissed.

The rat looked over at him, her red eyes curious.

"They know you by a different name in Sulumac'Dun!" Asher continued. "You're nothing but _filth_!"

Brady coughed politely, as if to remind Asher about the red dots on Myrtle and the canines' foreheads. Asher didn't take the hint.

"Your name is _Traitor_," Asher growled. "You lost the right to any other name when you betrayed the High King of Mobius!"

Perle scoffed.

"Sulumac'Dun is dust, and the High King is dead," she replied. "Who would even mention that broken dynasty, these days?"

After a moment Perle gazed over at Asher; she stepped forward, looking the cottontail up and down. She came within an inch of his nose, leering up at a light cloth cowl bunched over his knobby antlers. She reached up, very slowly, and gripped the head covering.

Fionnghal stepped forward, snarling.

Perle looked over at her, shaking her head.

"Rematch?" She whispered.

Fionnghal bared her teeth, but Asher shook his head at her. He allowed Perle to remove his head covering and expose the antlers rising out of his skull.

Perle stepped back, looking first at the antlers, and then back at Asher's face. She squinted at him, briefly, before her reddish eyes betrayed a knowing glint.

"You must be Asher, right?"

The cottontail nodded, crossing his arms. He looked back at the party, pointing at Perle.

"All of you, listen up: this... _thing_ in front of us: its name is 'Traitor'. That's its _only_ name. Don't let it tell you any different."

Perle smiled, shaking her head.

"Did I lose my gender in that coup, too? My name is my own, Asher Shope. I had my name before I ever met the High King of Sulumac'Dun. Before I ever fought for his armies. Before I ever did battle in his name—"

Asher stepped forward, staring down at the rat with burning hate in his eyes; Ocotillo again pointed his flintlock at the cottontail, but Perle waved him off.

"The High King gave your name _meaning_, Traitor! And when you turned your back on him it _lost _all meaning! When you stabbed him in the back—"

An unpleasant smile wormed over Perle's face; she cooed at the cottontail, as if mocking him.

"I never stabbed High King Shope in the back, dear little Asher. It was the shoulder, I believe. At the time I was a bit rushed; I just didn't have the time to hit him anywhere more 'fitting'."

Asher bared his teeth. He didn't snarl, but his brow curled into a demonic furrow.

"As for not having a name," Perle continued, "it turns out that in the Momus, one doesn't really need a name. Just their wits, the lay of the land, and a weapon or two. That's really all one needs _anywhere_, come to think of it."

"And self-respect?" Fionnghal grumbled.

Perle again looked at the brown rat; she shook her head slowly.

"My species happens to lack that trait, entirely. Do _you_, of all people, not know that?"

At these words Fionnghal had to break her gaze; she again looked to one side, and again seemed sorely chastised.

"Just wat is your name, my good... _brown _rat?"

Fionnghal again met Perle's gaze.

"Fionnghal. Fionnghal De'Sulum."

Perle looked to one side, an absent frown on her face; her left paw twitched, as if she were working out a tricky math problem.

"Crèche Seventeen," she whispered. "District Five, is that right? Heart of the city. Good for you. Well, it _was_, I suppose..."

Fionnghal's head tilted back in surprise.

"Is that where you first met our dear little Asher, here? Skulking about the royal palace in your youth? Funny to think the guards might've let a dirty rat get that close to the Crown Prince of Sulumac'dun—"

"After _you_ we learned our lesson, filthy Pew!" Asher barked.

Fionnghal looked over at the cottontail, her lips parted. There was no combativeness to her face, but rather a deeply wounded bent to her gaze.

"Just what do you want with us, Traitor?" Asher growled.

Perle crossed her arms and shrugged.

"Nothing, _personally_. Professionally, however—"

"You have no profession—"

The pink-eyed white rat wagged her finger.

"Ah, but I do. After the insurrection failed I had no choice but to resort to banditry. We make as good a living as we can, darting in and out of these cursed woods for plunder. These woods, they are 'comforting' to animals like us."

"We have no prize to give up," Brady said. "If that's what you're after."

Perle again wagged a finger.

"You're all set up in the Thallomoor, and you're reasonably well-stocked on certain supplies. We know that. We also know that your defenses are... unsatisfactory, from a _military _standpoint—"

Fionnghal took a step forward.

"If you even _try_ hitting our camp—"

"I would lose approximately eighteen of my men," Perle said. "You would suffer catastrophic losses. Three-quarters of the supplies would likely be damaged in the fighting, and most likely we'd suffer a net-loss in the conflict." The rat inspected her nails as she spoke, dryly reporting the numbers as if reciting a math problem for class. "Make no mistake: you would _all _die, if you resisted, and we'd have total control of _everything _that was left. My only question is: would it be worth it?"

Asher balled a fist.

"You _talk _big, Traitor!"

Again Brady coughed politely. Asher looked like he would say more, but Fionnghal took a step forward, her blue eyes suspicious.

"We're _not _laying down for you. That's not even remotely a possibility."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Perle replied. "Maybe we can be more... 'diplomatic' about this affair."

Asher snarled.

"Maybe _you _can go and f—"

"What do you propose?" Fionnghal asked.

Asher glared at Fionnghal.

"This _thing _doesn't 'propose' anything!" He barked.

"Sure I do," Perle smirked. "If I can't come out ahead by invading your camp— for _now_, at least— then perhaps I can come out ahead in trading with you."

"You're _joking_!" Asher roared.

"And you're the son of a man I stabbed in the shoulder," Perle said. "Perhaps your emotions are compromising your judgment?"

"What are you willing to trade?" Fionnghal asked.

Asher stood between the two rats, pressing one paw against Fionnghal's shoulder and snarling at her.

"Doesn't matter; we're _not _doing this!"

"Asher—"

The cottontail wagged his head.

"No: it was enough when you thought I might be some kind of turncoat Delt, Fi, but _this _is beyond the pale! Now you _listen _to me—"

"Do I not get a _joint _say in these matters, Ash?"

"You're actinglike you've _already_ smoked—"

Ocotillo chortled. The kangaroo rat hopped up to Perle, leaning down by her side.

"That's the _other _thing they gave them away to us, boss: all that squabbling. Hell: we could track 'em through this whole place just by the _birds _taking off in the canopy, trying to fly away from their yelling at each other!"

Perle crossed her arms, looking back at the pair.

"So you aren't getting along? Pity, that. I'm going to make things simple for you: you'd both damn-well better start working with each other, because if I don't get an answer to my proposition within two-day's time you'll all be bathing in your own blood. Got it?"

"What's the proposal?" Fionnghal cocked a knee and stood with arms crossed icily.

"You're out here in the Momus Trough because you're probably looking for provisions, as well as an escape route if your current conflict with Delta Tribe goes south. Am I right?"

"No," Asher immediately replied. "You're _way _off—"

Perle nodded her head.

"Well, that answers _that _question," she said. "Thank you. In any event, my devious little band of brigands has foodstuffs to spare. Andwe know this Trough like the backs of our hands. That means we know where the food and medicine plants grow. _That's _something you probably need."

"Who says?" Asher bleated.

Perle sniffed the air twice, cocking her head at Myrtle.

"Your sugar's wound, for one thing. It smells deep, but well-treated. No matter how skilled the surgeon, give that wound a few days without cleansing salves and you can see how well she'll fare."

"We have plenty of salves for Myrtle," Fionnghal declared.

"And the rest of your civvies?" Perle shook her head. "I'll give you all two weeks before you have to start lopping off your juveniles' foots whenever they leap onto broken tree branches. I know from experience: it's a nasty thing when _soldiers _run low on antibiotic supplies. And when it happens to _civilians_?" Perle again shook her head. "Are you two really so heartless?"

Asher's face contorted.

"_You'd _speak of heartlessness?"

"What do you want in return?" Fionnghal asked.

Asher glared at her, his face bleeding anger from every pore.

Perle shrugged.

"Our devious little den is low on machine parts, oils, and toolkits. We'll need three standard cases of each, filled to the brim, of course."

Fionnghal looked to one side, deep in thought. She turned around, facing Brady.

And Asher was right there with her. Myrtle could barely hear their whispers; part of her wished she couldn't.

"She's out of her mind!" Asher snarled.

"Do we know if we can actually hold this band off if they hit the camp?" Fionnghal asked.

"Doesn't _matter_!"

The rat furrowed her brow.

"Actually, I'd say it damn-well does—"

"We are _not _doing this!"

Brady again coughed politely. Both the cottontail and the rat looked up at him.

"First thing's first," Brady said. "I'm notgonna break your tie—"

"Noted," Fionnghal growled. "Now spill it, chief."

"Fact is, we are deadly low on supplies," the sloth whispered. "That's a given. At this rate our civvies will starve to death before they even have a chance to hurt themselves and require medical attention. Now listen, I can't speak to whether or not we trust this 'Perle' girl—"

"The _Traitor_," Asher corrected.

"Mmm. Yeah, much nicer ring to that. I think I'll name my firstborn daughter that—"

"_Brapes_!" Asher and Fionnghal hissed.

"What she's asking for— whatever you wanna call her— we've got it in surplus. Hell, it's the _only _stuff we've got in surplus, at the moment. _If _she does like she says, and we have ourselves a fair trade, it's a damned good deal for us. _Damned _good. That's all I'm saying."

Asher and Fionnghal looked at each other. Myrtle felt like she was watching two glaciers bump up against each other in the arctic.

"Two days," Fionnghal said. "Can we agree by then?"

"Depends on whether you'll see _reason_," Asher growled.

Fionnghal shook her head. She again faced Perle and Ocotillo.

"We need time to think on this," Fionnghal declared.

Perle shrugged.

"Very well. And, in the meantime..." Perle looked over Fionnghal's shoulder, staring straight at Myrtle with her uneven crimson eyes.

"You versed in plants, sugar?"

Myrtle froze, but the white rat was patient. Eventually Myrtle managed a small nod.

"Then, as a small gesture of our goodwill, you can go with Ocotillo, if you wish." Perle motioned to the kangaroo rat. "He'll show you a few choice spots for harvesting around here—"

"Nope. Not gonna happen." Fionnghal stepped forward, facing Perle head-on. "You don't get to put your mitts on any of our people."

"To be honest, my dear Fionnghal, I already _have _my 'mitts' on the lot of you, you know."

"We all came _out _here together, and we all go _home _together. End of story!"

"Respectfully..."

All eyes turned to Myrtle. The sugar glider stood with her paws over her chest, black eyes quivering.

"Respectfully," she whispered. "If there's a chance I can be led to some supplies..."

Fionnghal adamantly shook her head, but Perle cut in with her two cents:

"How is it, now, that the sniveling servant is more brave than the _leader_?"

"Myrtle!" Fionnghal hissed.

The sugar glider looked Perle in the eyes very briefly.

"It makes sense for me to go. I know nothing of our strategy, nor our tactical strength," she said. "And... I would make a very poor hostage. You should know that, Mistress Perle."

The pink-eyed white rat nodded her head.

Fionnghal sighed.

"You sure?" She asked.

Catchie leaned closer to the sugar glider.

"For your maker's sake: say _no_! Are you insane?"

Myrtle's stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with her belly wound. She looked at Catchie, smiling gently.

"Like I said: I'm _needed _here..."

Myrtle slowly stepped forward. Passing by Asher was the hardest part; the cottontail was now entirely apoplectic, and he gave Myrtle such a dirty look that he might not have cared whether she returned or not.

Myrtle stood beside Ocotillo. The kangaroo rat gave her a tiny, perfunctory nod.

Fionnghal unsheathed _Curtainrod _and pointed it right at Perle.

"Myrtle is a noncombatant," she said. "If you harm her..."

"I said that I would not. And I never lie. _Ever_."

Asher scoffed at this.

"Ridiculous!" He hissed.

Brady stepped forward a few awkward paces.

"Uh, you know, just having seen this kinda thing before: when you say '_I _will not harm her', that's fine and all, but do you mean that someone _else _might, uh..."

"This is part of our business negotiation," Perle said, her voice deep and cold. "We take _business _seriously; we might slit your throats to get what we want, but we'd also do whatever we can to keep a good deal alive. So, while the sugar is with us, my entire band would die just to _keep_ her from harm."

Asher scoffed again. At least Brady seemed satisfied.

"Self-interested altruism, huh? That's explicit, at least. _Reliable_, to a point."

"The boss _doesn't _lie," Ocotillo said. "It's true. Trust me."

"I won't," Fionnghal grumbled. "But trust _me_: if anything happens to that sugar glider—"

"You'll be impotent to do a damned thing about it," Perle replied. "But nothing _will _happen, Mistress Fionnghal De'Sulum. So I suggest that you and dear little Asher toddle off home and discuss what I've presented to you. We'll be busy sharpening our _knives_, in anticipation of your answer..."

"That's good," Brady whispered. "At least they won't be bringing any _guns_, right?"

Fionnghal moved as if she were going to slap Brady's head again; but a stern scowl from the pink-eyed white rat dissuaded her.

The sloth cocked his brow, chuckling.

"Well, 'Miss Traitor' doesn't seem to be _all _bad, does she?" He whispered.

Neither Fionnghal nor Asher seemed amused.

III.

The pink-eyed white rat retrieved her camouflage poncho and shrouded herself in it. She walked past Myrtle and Ocotillo, giving the former a very curt nod. Soon the group was gone, lost in the maze of darkness stretched before them, and minutes later those bright red dots on the canines' heads disappeared. Catchie noticed the dot on her brother's head go out, and when Katchy let out a sigh she knew that her dot must be gone, too.

The most tranquil lull followed, nothing but the ambient sound of the forest as far as the ear could hear.

And seconds later Asher and Fionnghal ruined all that.

Asher launched into a full-on verbal tirade against Fionnghal. Fionnghal defended herself as best she could. The pair traded barbs back and forth, even as they headed home for the Thallomoor.

"Oh, to be a fly on the canvas of _their _tents, tonight!" Brady shook his head.

Katchy chuckled along with the chief.

"Ai gebben'hem zegbasha," he nodded.

Catchie and Brady looked over at the male raccoon dog, their eyes quizzical. For his part Katchy gaped and put his hand against his tongue, horrified.

"Agh... be'gan wortz!" He screeched. "Be'gan wortz! Gumbh! Gumbh!"

He suddenly raced off, moving for camp with the upmost urgency.

Catchie first grinned at her distressed brother, but then she stared back into the darkness of the forest, her face crestfallen.

"Hey, _canine_!" Brady yelled. "C'mon, Catchie-girl! Get a move on. Sheesh, you think anyone would actually _care _if we left you behind, li'l doggie?"

Catchie snapped out of her trance.

"No," she whispered to the chief. "No one _here_ would, I think..."

Regretfully, the canine turned and caught-up to the rest of the group. She kept her head down the whole way home.

And that night she didn't sleep very well at all.


	11. Runner Revisited

"_Runner _Revisited"

I.

"They've collected some ashes. They can't, well, be _sure_, you know, but..."

"..."

"If you _wanted _them, they have them. You could, you know, bury..."

"..."

"I just thought you should know. Also: _he's _gone. He got away. He was spirited off by... by one of those automatons of his. One of those _freaks_."

"..."

"Listen, if there's anything I can—"

"There's nothing you can do. There's nothing _anyone _can do. Not now."

"I understand. Our leaders are making all our preparations; we know he'll hit us from above, to start, and so we'll need to hit _him_ from—"

"_Our_ preparations? _We_? No. You can't mean you're still gonna—"

"What do you want from me? I'm a _soldier_. I have my orders—"

"From _them_? Do you have any idea what they've done? Do you have any idea what we've _all_ done? And do you have anyidea what we're going to lose? Everything we've _lost_? I— it— it's—"

"Listen, I know it's difficult—"

"_Get your paws off me_! Don't you dare touch me!"

"Our leaders had a tough decision. Did they make mistakes? Did we _all _make mistakes? Maybe. Maybe we all did. But now, on the eve of war, it's the soldiers' jobto rally, and to follow orders—"

"'Soldier'. Ha! I know what you are, and so do you. Don't you dare sugarcoat it, you little liar. Hell, you're even lying to _yourself_, aren't you? If you stay with _them_, and if you fight with them, that makes you worse than the bloody _filth _you've become over the years: it makes you filth with a heart of _ice_! Makes me wonder why you still have those fiery red eyes; I'd think they'd be frosty blue by now, from all that damned ice-water flowing though your rotten veins! Yeah, that's just what you are: a cold ball of _grime_. Amazing you can keep that coat looking so snowy clean..."

"..."

"Everything... _everything's _just a ball of grime..."

"Why do you hurt me? I'm only trying to... look, I don't know what else to say. For god's sake, I don't want to hurt you! I'm your—"

"You're _nothing _to me. _Nothing_! Not if you cast your lot in with the rest of them. Not if you fight for them. I don't even know what _they_ are, anymore. Savages! Dumb beasts! And, looking at you right now, that makes me sick; I don't know you anymore either. Hell, give me enough time and I'll forget your goddamned name. Maybe that's for the best..."

"..."

"Maybe it's for the best that I disappear..."

"You can't do that. Even if you wanted. This fight is going to engulf the entire world—"

"—minus _one_. Not me. I've paid my dues. I'm done with it all. Go march off and fight— go and _die_— and to hell with all of you."

"..."

"I'm leaving it all behind me."

"How?"

"I think... I think I'm just going to run away."

"That's what a juvenile might say, you know—"

"Maybe I'm _feeling _'juvenile'—"

"And this problem is too big to escape; you can't run thatfast. Nobody can."

"Good. That's exactly what I'll be from now on: a 'nobody'. And you can just _watch _me run."

His back turned; cold night air burned on ruffled quills. He faced away, staring at the smoking crater across the water.

"But you can watch me from a _distance_, because you're _nobody _to me now, too..."

Boots stepped forward. Once. Twice. A paw reached out in the darkness.

Then, moments later, those boots walked off, echoes fading as they left the frost-covered bridge.

The footfalls disappear; his heart hammers; his breath quickens. Black eyes widen in the night, and then turn to slits, quivering.

His hand grips the chunk of stone tight; it glistens green in the moonlight, no longer smoking, no longer hot to the touch, not like that charred crater across the way from him.

Green hues in the rock turn to pink; colors pulse in time with his racing heart, with his heavy breaths, with his swimming head.

With his quivering eyes.

And then, quite unexpectedly, something most extraordinary happened...

II.

"_Listen, I know it's difficult—_"

"_Get your paws _off _me_!"

Sonic opened his eyes, snarling like a beast.

Wide hazel eyes met his face, bulging under a mop of sandy blond hair. A freckled face stared at him, tense with alarm; most of that 'alarm' had to do with Sonic's hand tightened over the boy's throat.

Sonic released his grip, growling.

"Human. Juvenile..."

Quinn leaned back a bit, cradling his throat.

"Hedgehog. Bat-shit crazy..."

"Juvies shouldn't curse." Sonic got up and stretched. Quinn watched his chest as the emerald around his neck slowly faded from a glistening pink to a dull green.

"Mister Asher and Miss Fionnghal are back," Quinn said. "You wanted to know..."

Sonic scratched his quills, grunting.

"Mmm. Thanks."

The boy nodded. He got to his feet as well.

"What'd you want to talk to them about, anyway?"

Sonic turned, narrowing his eyes.

"_Gemology_," he grumbled.

III.

"So, let me get this straight." Quinn kicked his slender legs back and forth, dangling off the edge of an elevated cot. "Mister Asher is the _son _of the High King of Mobius?"

Fionnghal nodded.

"Well, then Mister Asher's a _prince_, isn't he?"

Asher stood near the flap of the tent. He scoffed.

"_Theoretically_.For all the good it does me. Wide gulf there, between the theoretical and the _practical_..."

"And this rat, Perle—"

Asher whipped his head around, staring at the boy with dagger eyes.

"Uh, 'The Traitor'," Quinn stammered. "She helped destroy your city, Sulumac'dun?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"This was many years before the city fell. Lady Perle Rocciaforte was a high-ranking commander in the King's army. There was an insurrection; a foreign city was using residents of our own city to spy on the monarchy and overthrow it. It devolved into open combat, after a time. The insurrection ultimately failed and Perle was outcast when her treason came to light."

Asher again scoffed; he turned around, absently grinding a half-broken purple stone between his fingers.

"_Years_ of 'service', and she was an enemy agent that whole time. Everythingshe did for my family was a lie. Her handlers gave her the code name 'Velveteen'. That name is as equally despised as hers is, today."

Quinn cocked his head.

"Weird code name..."

"Not really. Cottontails have ruled Sulumac'dun for generations. Too many to count. And the royal bloodline is only composed of _horned _cottontails," Asher tapped his antlers with one digit.

"Uh, why?"

"Makes sense," Asher shrugged. "We have lapine luck on our side."

Quinn pursed his lips.

"Uhhhh—"

Asher rolled his eyes.

"Legend says it protects us horned cottontails, keeps us from harm. Some kind of divine providence, either from the gods of my forefathers, or maybe the Beings Who Came From Before. Whatever. But the luck watches over us, so they say. So it was natural that _we _should watch over a kingdom. Anyway, having these gnarly horns makes wearing a regular crown difficult, so we wore headdresses, instead. And they were all made out of fine purple velvet."

The cottontail scratched at his antlers absently.

"Itchy as hell, too. Just remembering the things makes me wanna scratch. I really hated wearing them..."

"So, when, uh, 'The Traitor' decided to call herself 'Velveteen'..."

"She rose very high in the military ranks," Fionnghal explained. "But she knew she could never rise any higher. Also, well..."

Asher crossed his arms.

"She was my father's favored commander. More than that. He gave her great responsibility, and great privileges. Growing up I remember her: after a time it was almost as if she were a member of our household. My father, he almost treated her like a second daughter. She came to rule over the top soldiers in our army, jointly with my sister Haliled, who also welcomed her with open arms. The Traitor did everything she could to shine for my father, and to be trusted. And she _was_." The cottontail's eyes darkened. "But that was never enough for her. _Never_. She knew that she could never wear a crown made out of velvet, not being a cottontail, and so she schemed with the enemy. Gods only know what they promised her. Maybe she was to be put in charge of the city after its conquest. Then she could rule with a phony crown on her head: a velveteen imposter!"

"So... kinda personal for you, I'm guessing?" Quinn said.

Asher growled.

"_Hundreds _of our troops died because of the information she sent to the enemy; Haliled, my own brave _sister_, she fell in combat as a direct result of the rat's treachery. And then, one night, that damned rat snuck into our palace chambers and tried to murder my father while he slept. So yes, I'd call it 'personal', wouldn't you, juvenile?"

"She actually tried to _kill_ the king? Personally?"

"There was a commotion in his chambers. I remember it clearly. At the time I was younger than you. Maybe eight years old, or even less. I crept from my room, following behind the guards as they burst into my father's chambers. We were all there just in time to see her with the knife, lunging at him, plunging it deep into his body. For the grace of the gods my father managed to turn himself, and she only managed to hit his shoulder. That's lapine luck for you. As he fell, with blood spurting out his body, I ran ahead of the guards, screaming. She looked up at me with this demonic bloodlust, snarling like a wild beast, and kicked up a chair. Missed my head by an inch; it would have taken my head clean-off its shoulders, otherwise. The guards went at her and forced her back; she plunged out a window and disappeared into the night."

"After the defeat of the insurrection she must have lost all her prospects," Fionnghal mused. "No country would possibly take her. There was nothing left for her to do but to turn to banditry in the wild woods. Fitting, I suppose—"

"Too noble a profession for her," Asher growled.

Sonic leaned against a nearby tent pole, scraping one foot against the floor.

"This is great, and all, and by 'great' I mean pointlessly _boring_. Perle doesn't matter—"

"_The Traitor_," Asher said.

Sonic smirked.

"You're no prince of mine, Ash. You _know_ that. And you're in _my _territory. You don't get to tell me how to talk—"

Asher pointed at the hedgehog.

"Clear them out, Speedster: go into the Momus Trough and _crush _them into dust—"

"And you _sure _as hell don't give me orders—"

"Not orders," Asher wagged a finger. "A deal: you drop The Traitor and her brigands, and then we'll be free to look into this matter of yours."

"I don't go into the Momus," Sonic crossed his arms.

"Afraid?" Asher cocked his head.

"Too many trees," Sonic snarled. "Too little light. Not enough space to get up to speed. Also, that place tends to have a bunch of hidden bog pits in it. Pretty deep water, there..."

Quinn looked up.

"Can't you swim?" He said. "Heck, even _I _know how to swim. At least, I _think_ I do." The boy stared down at his feet. "Wait: _do _I? Hmm…"

Sonic scowled at the boy, motioning to his thick metal leg braces.

"These things aren't exactly 'aqua-dynamic', kid."

"Oooh!" Quinn nodded. "That's right! I guess you'd kinda sink like a stone, wouldn't you?"

Sonic again faced Asher.

"You'll look into this 'matter' because you _have _to, Ash. We're talking about a massive chunk of the Master Emerald, and you can't affordto let anyone else get their hands on it."

Fionnghal waved a paw through the air.

"Okay: I'm still a little unclear on the particulars, here. How is it that a giant chunk of the Master Emerald just appears like this, right out of the blue?"

Sonic cocked his head at Quinn.

"Ask the juvie. It's _his _ship that smacked into the ground and exposed the damned thing."

Asher scratched his chin.

"You mean to say—"

"Ship hits earth; ship tears earth up; tear in earth exposes path to Master Emerald chunk." Sonic shook his head. "Let me know when you catch up, Ash."

Quinn's eyes widened.

"You're all going back to the _Rainbow Runner_?"

Sonic shook his head.

"Not the ship _itself_. The gigantic scar in the earth your ship left when it, uh, 'landed'."

"We're not going _anywhere_," Asher barked, "until we deal with The Traitor and her minions!"

"Spare me the histrionics," Sonic grumbled.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Sonic, she's threatened to attack us soon if we don't answer her demands—"

"Then _answer_ her, Pew! Figure it out!" Sonic barked. The hedgehog moved for the tent flap. "And then you both get your rears into gear. You _are _going after that rock, come hell or high water. And the sooner you do it, the better."

Sonic departed.

Fionnghal and Asher exchanged glances. The pair remained silent for a moment, eyeing each other intently, and then Asher looked as if he was about to speak.

Then he closed his mouth and slowly turned his head, facing Quinn.

Fionnghal did the same.

The boy swallowed; he quickly hopped off the cot, nearly face-planting on the floor, and moved for the tent exit.

"I have to, uh... yeah: I'll go do... _something _else, I think..."

The boy closed the tent flap behind him.

"How do we play this, Ash?" Fionnghal said. "How do we agree—"

"We both just have to agree that it's _insane _to trust that scheming rat. That's all!"

Fionnghal crossed her arms and stated down at her boots.

"She represents... an untrustworthy breed, doesn't she?"

Asher looked to one side, evasive.

"Listen, Fi: when I said that thing in the Momus— when I called Perle a 'filthy Pew', I—"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Forget that," she whispered.

"Listen, I was just talking about—"

A burst of static exploded from a radio on Fionnghal's hip. She took it up to her floppy ear.

"Fionnghal, here. Yes, I see. Yeah, got it. No, have her checked out anyway." She replaced the radio and again looked at the Cottontail. "Myrtle's back. None the worse for wear, apparently. And she's got 'samples' of what the Momus has to offer."

"We can _take _what the Momus has to offer once we've got Perle's head on a bloody _pike_—"

"I don't see that as an option right now, Asher!"

The cottontail threw up his hands.

"Gods! You know, he may have been a slimy traitor too, but at least I could talk _strategy_ with M'quelo. Just what good _are_ you, Fi?"

Cold fire burned in the rat's blue eyes. She put her hands to her hips, teeth bared. She looked as if she might speak, but then she paused; she walked to a small slit in the canvas tent, staring outside and nibbling at her lower lip with her teeth. When she turned around again her face was more 'clinical' and composed. She spread her hands to either side.

"Do you want it all, Ash? Do you _want _to lead this whole thing, all of 'Theta Tribe', or whatever we're gonna call ourselves? Are there too many cooks in the kitchen right now? You know, I'll give it _all _to you, damn it. Every _ounce _of my authority! You can be the absolute, complete and _undisputed _ruler of everybody here, right now!"

The cottontail's face fell; those stern lines around his jaw and cheeks, usually so rigid and proud, sagged like deflated balloons.

"Fionnghal, don't even joke about that. I _can't _be the one to lead this group. Not now. You _know _that!"

The rat took a few deliberate steps towards him, punctuating her words with each step of her oversized boots.

"I know that you have disrespected me, mocked me, ignored my words, and that you aren't even considering the consequences of racing off on some testosterone-laden, single-minded plan to get vengeance for a 20-year-old wound—"

"That wound _hasn't_ healed, Fi. It neverwill, not until The Traitor—"

Fionnghal got right up in the cottontail's face, perched on tiptoes, snarling:

"And she's not going anywhere. You want Perle Rocciaforte dead? Fine. I'll kill her myself, Ash. I promise you that. I'll rip her head from her shoulders and give it to you on a platter, if you want. _Someday_. Not today. Today our civvies lives are at play, Ash! Today we can keep them safe for a little while longer. Did you even think of that? Don't you know that our orders have _consequences_?"

Asher stepped back against the fabric of the tent, cornered by the menacing rat.

"You can't ask me to get in bed with that— that _monster _out in the woods, Fi. You _can't_!"

Fionnghal's sneer deepened. Slowly it evaporated. The rat cocked her head, stared at the ground, and then she quietly detached her belt from her waist; all her tools, including _Curtainrod_, came tumbling down to the ground, landing in a messy heap.

"I would never have a filthy beast like me stand in your way, _Prince_ Shope." Fionnghal stepped away from her discarded tools, eyes narrowed. She turned to leave. "May your dictates find favor in the eyes of the gods, highness."

"Fionnghal!" Asher raced around the rat, blocking her path. "Fi! Y— you can't do this! I _can't _be the one to lead these people. Not by myself! If word gets out that I was _single-handedly _in charge of a tribe... you _know _what all the other tribes would do! You know what they would think! It would be war: totally open, and ugly! Fi, we've made this work. It _can _work."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"We had M'quelo," she whispered. "He was older than us. _Wiser_ than us. He held us together. And, most importantly, he was there to break our ties, Ash. Without him—"

"Fionnghal, we can agree. I swear we can! I— I'm sorry, for everything. The slurs, and the disrespect. You're right about all that. It's just... with all that's happened..."

Fionnghal stared at the ground.

"We don't trust each other, Ash. I think you're right about that. And that's why I don't think anyof this is going to work..."

They stood that way for a time, Asher holding Fionnghal back by her shoulders; Fionnghal staring at the floor. Finally Asher shook his head.

"How long have we known each other, Fi?"

The rat smiled wistfully.

"What was it: since we were five? Isn't that right? From that time you snuck out of the palace and went spelunking next door, down in those caverns under Crèche Seventeen?"

"I wasn't the only one creeping about where I didn't belong, you know."

The rat's smile spread.

"You'd never seen my kind before, had you? You must've thought I was a _ghost_."

Asher cocked his brow.

"I didn't have much time to think about anything, what with you knocking me upside the head."

The rat looked to one side, a decidedly mischievous smirk on her face.

"In all fairness I thought you were a burglar, come to rob our little crèche."

Asher scoffed.

"And I hardly had the wherewithal to explain myself, did I? I still remember waking up, all muzzled and tied..."

Fionnghal chuckled.

"I think I bounced you over _every _rock on the path leading back up to the crèche, too! Dragging you by that rope..."

"My _back_ remembers that."

"I was so proud of myself," Fionnghal shook her head, laughing. "I caught a little burglar, and I could present him to my elders for praise. Oh, how they tanned my hide for that..."

"You weren't the only one," Asher grumbled. "My father didn't take very kindly to my explorations; he put me in total lockdown for a month after that. Didn't stop _you _from getting in to see me again, did it?"

"Well, the palace was designed to keep _adults _from sneaking in, you know. Little rat pups are just more flexible." Fionnghal's shoulders wiggled a bit, as if her muscles were reliving a memory. "Besides, I hadto apologize to you in person—"

"'Apologize'?" Asher scoffed. "I wake up in bed in the middle of the night to find you crouching right on top of me, and before I can say a word you sock me right in the jaw!"

Fionnghal wagged a finger.

"_That _was for not telling me you were the prince sooner—"

"You made that rather difficult at the time, Fi!"

"And I _did _apologize right after that, didn't I?"

"I think your exact words were: 'little rat girls shouldn't be able to take down little rabbit boys so easy, but I kinda feel bad about it, so...'"

The cottontail spread his hands, again chuckling.

"You were lucky to get _that_ out of me," Fionnghal said. "Up until that point I thought everyone at the palace was a living god."

"So sorry that I disabused you of that notion."

Fionnghal again wandered to the slit in the tent canvas; yellow sunlight played off her dun-colored fur.

"And then I looked you up and down. Got a _very _good look at you. And no, you weren't a god. I learned that, then. You were just another little juvenile, like me..."

"I remember what you said right after that," Asher stepped toward the rat. "You leaned down right near my head, blinking those tomboy eyes, and you said—"

"—'wanna go exploring, some other time'?" Fionnghal stared down at her boots.

"We started 'the Mischief' that very night," Asher said. "I was your introductory member..."

"We were 'mischievous' back then." Fionnghal said. "We _all_ were."

Asher avoided the rat's gaze; he stared down at her waist.

"Don't abandon me, Fi. _Please _don't. I can't do this without you."

Fionnghal sighed. She shook her head.

"I won't just abandon you, Asher. If I ever leave, it'll be because you pushed me away. And you'd have to push prettyhard..."

"I've been working at it," the cottontail grumbled. "And I'm sorry for that, Fi."

Fionnghal shrugged.

"Just one thing left, then," she said.

Asher cocked his head, quizzical.

And the next thing he knew he was sprawled on the floor, splayed beside his cot, cheek blazing with pain.

Fionnghal slowly sauntered around to his side; the cottontail looked up at the rat, rubbing his face.

"Still got that 'mischievous' streak in you, Fi?"

Fionnghal popped her knuckles, smirking.

"Can't totally take the 'tom' out of the 'girl', you know,"

"You'd surprise M'quelo right now, you know that?"

Fionnghal cocked her brow.

"Oh?"

Asher smiled.

"Who'd ever think you'd actually _learn_ to 'suppress the assassin within you', huh?"

The rat crossed her arms.

"Strictly a _temporary_ arrangement," she muttered. "We'll have time for him later. And Perle, as well."

"Noted," Asher nodded.

Fionnghal paced back and forth, scratching at the nape of her neck.

"Now then: on the one front we've got a cybernetics-crazy madman looking to get his hands on the most powerful force of nature this planet has even seen, and on another we've got a treacherous, armed-to-the-teeth bandit queen— who just happens to be a military genius— breathing down our necks. Our odds are frankly hopeless, and I personally have no clue what to do—"

"Not much for pep talks, are you, Fi? I think we'll have Brapes give all the mission briefings from now on..."

The rat leaned down near Asher.

"Hopeless odds notwithstanding, that's kinda where the fun is, isn't it? We'll figure it all out. Somehow. Guess we'll try to get it done together, if we can. After all, it's a 'tribal' thing."

Fionnghal extended one paw to the cottontail.

"So, my dear Asher Shope: the world out there stands ready to eat us all alive. So, you wanna go exploring?"

Asher looked up at the rat. He took her hand, and she pulled him to his feet.

"Delighted," he said.


	12. Molar Impaction

"Molar Impaction"

I.

She stepped back, bare feet pattering over the bricks, with her paws balled into tight little fists before her face. Her ragged breath caught a plume of blood seeping out her nose; she sent it billowing in a spray through the air, like a poorly popped wad of bubblegum. She tried to blink— difficult, given the already massive swell to her left eye and the raw flesh beneath it.

_She's finished... finally..._

The rat narrowed her eyes; her tongue slunk over her upper lip, catching the bloody geyser as it dribbled. She lapped up the fluid, and then she drew a deep breath. She grinned.

Her teeth glistened like razors. There was a very unattractive snarl.

And then her eyes—

_Oh, crap—_

Ten seconds later he was on his back. The flurry was unimaginable: a hailstorm of kicks, punches, claws, screeching, _biting_—

Seriously! _Bites_! That bloody, dirty rat!

His massive armored head hit the cobbled ground as she pinned him down: punch after punch after punch rained down on his scaly jaw, the grizzled flesh of his cheeks, his sunken eyes. And all the while she screeched at him, belting out that horrid rat lowspeak. He did his best to shield himself from her blows, roaring angrily at first, but then whimpering under the assault.

The other one was there— that weak little runt— grabbing at the rat's paws, trying to pull her back.

"Pew. Stop. Pew! You gotta stop. _Pew_!"

The rat pushed that pathetic whelp away, again raising her fists, but then she stopped. The rat stared down at her opponent. She panted, resting on her elbows, and then spat a wad of blood onto his face.

"Nobody's ever wailed on me that bad," she managed. "Nobody outside the crèche, at least—"

"_You've _never gone against an armadillo," he growled.

The rat shook her head.

"Lotsa times," she said. "Just never another eight-year-old, like me."

"You beat up on _littler_ juvies, huh?"

"You 'dillos are supposedto be stronger than us..."

She then did something with her knee that was _really _uncalled for. When he was done writhing about she continued:

"Looks like you _aren't _stronger, are you?"

"Then let's go again!" He roared. "I saw the way you flinched when I whomped your nose! I _know _how to hurt you, dirty rat!"

"Do you really wanna have another go? Then make fun of _him_ again. You just tryit. Go on: _do it_!" The rat cocked her head back at that little weakling; he now stood back in the shadows, cowering.

He scowled.

"If he wants to defendant himself then he can. Hey, needle-back: you gonna let some little girl fight your battles for you?"

Black eyes quivered in the darkness.

"Speak up, you little teat-sucker!"

Another sock to the jaw. He groaned, staring up at her with blazing eyes:

"What's he to _you_, anyway?"

She gripped his head with her paws and buried her bloodied face against his bumpy crown:

"_Off limits _to you. That's what. You got a problem with that, 'dillo boy?"

He growled, trying to pull his head away from her, but he couldn't. The acrid scent of her blood stung his nostrils; the heat of her body burned him. He stared up into those fiery eyes with derision.

And then the look on his face changed; suddenly that acrid musk burning off her limbs didn't smell _quite _as repulsive as it did before. He didn't so much mind that unsteady breath ruffling against his armored shell. She must have noticed the change in him; her dark scowl turned into a quizzical frown, but just as quickly the scowl was back.

"_Well_, 'dillo boy?"

"Forget it. He isn't worth it."

The rat growled at him, and then quickly stood up, backing away. He got to his feet slowly, cradling his gut.

The rat wiped at her chin, sloughing off a thick coat of spit and blood. She looked the armadillo up and down, again puzzled by the change in him. Slowly her eyes changed from cold slits to curious orbs. She knelt, retrieving her clothing from the ground, and slowly began to dress herself, careful to avoid getting any bloodstains on her top or bottoms.

That was another uncomfortable factor in the fight: the rat had stepped out of every stitch of clothing on her body right before landing the first punch. He didn't know what to make of any of that: fighting a female juvie, for one thing, and a _naked _one, to boot.

And of course that whole thing— her _being _naked— it was just… well, _gross_…

It certainly was. No doubt. Not at all.

"You... you fight pretty good," she said. "You're strong, too, right? Just not very fast—"

"So what?" He snapped. "Anyway, I would've beaten you, you know, but..."

"But what?"

He crossed his hefty arms.

"I was..._ distracted_."

The rat cocked her head, truly and completely bemused.

"What: sun in your eyes?" She teased.

"I _could _take you," he grumbled. "_If _we go again..."

She scoffed, wagging her head.

"No way."

He scowled, even as the rat bared her serrated teeth. Eventually her sneer fell away and she again looked him up and down.

"You know, we're explorers. Our group is. We go places," she said. "And sometimes we can't get to where we're going, 'cause we can't force our way in. Pull open rusty doors, clear away rubble, bust into really ancient stone walls, that kind of thing..."

The armadillo still panted; he looked at the rat with a frown.

"What kind of 'places'?"

"You know: places. _Exploring_," she said. "It's what we do. In the 'Mischief', I mean. That's us; that's what we call ourselves. You know, we could use you. If you _wanted_..."

Now the armadillo cocked his head.

"C'mon," the rat crossed her arms, smiling with terribly bloodied teeth. "Don't you wanna go exploring?"

He shrugged.

"I... uh. Who's in this thing, huh? It's you, and that needle-back—"

The scowl that started this whole episode came back.

"I mean _him_— sorry— and who else?"

She smoothed her clothing into place, looking to one side coyly, batting her lashes. It was the first thing she'd done so far that reminded him she was actually a female.

Other than stripping out of her clothes, that is.

"A friend in high places," she cooed. "You want in, or not?"

"Still dunno. I bet you we'd _fight_ again, if I did come—"

"Sure. We can go again. _Anytime_, 'dillo."

He stared at the ground, shrugging.

"Yeah, sure. I guess." He looked up at her sternly. "But only if you promise one thing."

"What?"

"Don't take off your clothes the _next_ time we fight."

She cocked her head.

"It... it's _gross_..."

II.

Tatu craned his head to one side, listless, as the bay doors rattled open. Metal-tipped heels clapped over the iron floor with militaristic precision. Bellesailes sauntered past his desk, busily cinching serrated metal greaves over her thin wrists.

When the rusty claw-foot of her boot bumped against an empty bottle the Dame stopped; she looked down at the armadillo, his upper body sprawled out over the tabletop.

"A pretty picture," she muttered.

One of the armadillo's leathery eyelids folded open; he watched the Dame saunter across the room and stand before the glass wall, still adjusting her body's gear. Outside the clouds rushed by, parting before the _Egg Viper _like a mess of foam kicked off the sea.

Tatu brushed away a few empty bottles on the tabletop with his free arm and turned over the datapad he'd been reading: Delta Tribe's casualty list from Operation Silverheart.

"Come in, Bellesailes, by all means..."

"The briefing is in ten," she said, not turning to face him. "He is meeting with the Elites, upstairs." The Dame looked back at Tatu, her venomous orange eyes beaming. "_They'll_ likely have the lead on this one."

Tatu burped.

"He thinks we should sit this one out, then?"

The damselfly bared her teeth, scowling into the sky.

"The Dames will _not_," she growled.

Tatu waved a massive finger in the air, unsteady.

"Best to point this out: narrow crevices and the deep, dark corners of this planet are not exactly your species' element, my dear."

"The hedgehog will be there," Bellesailes said, "so _I _will be there."

The Dame suddenly extended her slender arms to either side; skinny pistons flared to life all along her back and waist. A great wall of metallic fabric exploded all around her: a gray curtain of rippling, gossamer wings. They were curious things, at the same time they looked as delicate as a pool of standing water, yet hard as a slab of steel. A complex frame of metal struts complimented the wings, complete with their own nooks and folds.

Bellesailes paced about before the window, at first snarling with satisfied rage. But as she strutted about, confident and proud, her swagger slowed to a crawl. She looked over at her metallic wings, flitting them back and forth, and then looked to one side.

"I _will_ redeem myself to him," she said. "I can still... I can..."

Tatu looked up at her.

"You can _what_?"

The Dame quickly looked out the window, staring at her reflection. She brushed a hand over one wing, along its edge. When she looked down at her finger a small train of yellow blood oozed along her digit. She didn't seem to mind.

But Tatu did:

"What's the matter, Bellesailes?"

"These wings: these are better than my old ones. My _original _ones. They are. Half the weight, double the flight efficiency, and all the... 'extras' . They're... better." She balled her fist, watching the blood from her finger train over her metal-studded wrist. "Not even that: they're _perfect_. And they shine, more than any other organic wing in this world could ever hope to. But, still..."

Tatu sat up, supporting his head with one massive arm.

"They, uh, they do suit you, you know. All-in-all, they _are _rather... stunning—"

The Dame spun about.

"You honestly think I care about _that_? Ridiculous! It's just..." she flapped the wings, again pacing, and balled both her fists in frustration. "I _need _metals in my spine, in my lungs, and in my limbs. There are so many things I need. I shouldn't be alive, because of all the things I _need_. I accept all that. I do accept the things I need. But... _my_ wings. Up in the air, with my chest heaving, artificially, and my arms and legs tied-up in this boxy powered armor, my back and neck crackling, snapping with juice... in the air I still had this— this _one _thing. It was the one thing that was... _me_..."

The Dame again touched her metal wings. She shook her head.

"But... no. No: these are _better_. And they _are_ a need, now. All the rest, it's really just a _want_: some ridiculous part of me that felt better having my own grown wings. Those... inferior things. Vanity. I don't know. These... these are _perfect_.Still, for everything I've had done— for all my body's _needs_— this is the first one that makes me feel... not quite right. Like I'm really the 'freak' that all those unmodified flesh-and-blood creatures on this planet accuse me of being."

Bellesailes again swished her wings about as she walked. She stared at the ground, scowling.

"I feel... I feel _clumsy_, Tatu."

The armadillo stared down at the floor, his eyes glassy. He slowly shook his head.

"You're not clumsy, Bellesailes. _None_ of us are."

The Dame crossed her arms; her metal wings suddenly retracted, bundled back up against the sharp curve of her spine like a ream of folded paper.

"Respectfully: your opinion is meaningless to me." The Dame walked past Tatu's desk, heading for the door. "More likely than not you won't even remember this conversation anyway." She stopped at the doorway. "Dose yourself with a stim. _Now_. And then come upstairs. They'll be waiting for us."

"Bellesailes..."

The Dame turned around, arms still crossed.

"About your wings... I am sorry..."

Bellesailes scoffed, shaking her head.

"I don't accept apologies for _stupidity_, Tatu. Stupidity is the kind of thing you _can't _ask an apology for. You've just got to learn from it. Or not. Doesn't matter."

"Was there a 'respectfully' in there, somewhere?" He grumbled.

"_If _you remember this conversation, then you can give me a demerit. Point is, the only thing that merits an 'apology' is _deliberate, calculated _action. And it's not like you purposefully sabotaged Operation Silverheart."

The Dame wagged a finger as she stepped out through the door.

"Now _that _you would have to apologize for," she growled. "And you would have found me... 'unapologetic'."

The door squealed shut. Tatu stared at his calloused hands for a good, long while. He absently flicked a bottle off the desktop, sending it crashing against the floor.

"Still, even that in mind, I... I _am _sorry."

II.

It was ten minutes before he was presentable, and even then just barely. The wolves still stood before Eggman's chair in the operations room, Bellesailes off to one side. At Tatu's lumbering entrance three of the silver masked creatures turned their heads. Only the fourth one— the wolf in the brass mask— ignored him.

Eggman was staring down at a datapad in his lap, his marbled black eyes intense. At Tatu's entrance he looked up only briefly, uninterestedly.

"So nice of the Regulars to grace us with their presence," he muttered.

"I'd apologize," Tatu grumbled, "but I've been spending the past 30 hours putting together a special-operations spelunking team with our nocturnals. Now I hear that the Regulars are off the front lines entirely? No place for us in this little cave-diving soiree?"

"You hear correctly," the brass-faced wolf said. He did not look at the armadillo. "There has been a development: the target of this operation is buried in tribal land."

Tatu scoffed.

"Not to fault canine intelligence, but that whole area around the impact trench is a wasteland. Or does the wolf honor code now extend to cockroaches, too?"

Dasy stood apart from the group, metal fingers busily dancing about on a workstation; he looked up at Tatu, silver eyes beaming.

"Land extends in three dimensions; wolf honor code does likewise."

Tatu looked first at the android, and then up at Eggman.

"What's the bucket of bolts trying to say?"

Eggman set his datapad aside and folded his hands together; he considered the armadillo with a jagged scowl on his sharp face.

"The Master Emerald chunk is buried beneath the land," he said. "That is also the dwelling place of a tribe, apparently. And it's not canine intelligence that tells us so, Tatu: it's the Ground Master. And I pay _attention _to what the Ground Master tells me, because she has demonstrated herself to be _far _more valuable to Delta Tribe than you are, or ever have been."

Tatu crossed his arms.

"And here I thought the Regulars were 'essential' to your organization, sir..."

Eggman pointed at Tatu with a gloved hand.

"_You _are not the Regulars, Tatu; you're the faceof them. For _now_..."

Tatu looked over at the wolves, scowling.

"At least I can _show _my face," he snarled.

"Even when you probably shouldn't," Eggman sat back in his chair. "You will go to the surface with the Elites and make contact with this tribe. You will negotiate access to the Master Emerald fragment, but the terms will be approved by the _Elites_. Then you will bring that fragment to me..."

The brass-faced wolf stepped forward.

"And what of Theta Tribe? They are moving to the impact trench with their own delegation. What if they should interfere?"

Eggman popped his knuckles; he rested his chin on one fist, scowling.

"They would try to prevent me from taking possession of this fragment," Eggman said.

"Yes," the wolf nodded.

"_My _property."

The wolf again nodded.

"And it's possible that this subterranean tribe might do likewise, even in the face of our most... _generous_ offers..."

"Agreed. This is possible."

The human balled his free fist tight.

"In that case: '_Eggman cometh_'," he snarled.

The wolves nodded and then left the operations room; Tatu did likewise. Eggman stared down at the armadillo with dagger eyes as he walked. The armadillo stopped near the doorway when he realized that Bellesailes was not with him; the damselfly instead walked up to Eggman's chair and stood before him.

"You have business, Bellesailes?" Eggman asked.

"One request. That's all."

Eggman motioned to the rolled-up wings on the Dame's back.

"How are those holding up so far?"

"They're perfect," she replied.

"And are _you_ adjusting well? Any hiccups?"

The Dame shook her head.

Eggman nodded.

"That's good. Sometimes these prosthetics can leave one feeling a bit 'off'—"

"I feel _graceful_," Bellesailes said. "I feel _complete_."

"Then what is it you want? And, before you ask, the Dames are _not _to play an active role in this operation—"

The Dame stepped forward, metal boots clanking ugly on the floor. She beat her chest with one fist.

"Send me down there. Just _me_, at least—"

"A commander without any troops is a sorry force, indeed—"

Bellesailes wagged her head.

"Not as a commander. Not this time, at least."

"Then as what?"

"Send me as _Speedster_."

Tatu did a brief double-take; Dasy, still working his console, sparked briefly, his metal head bobbing up in an awkward hiccupping motion.

Eggman didn't miss a beat; out of everyone he seemed to be the only person who predicted this request.

"No."

"It will give me the ability to engage _any _threat to this operation!" She said. "And it satisfies the Code completely!"

"Delta Tribe does not have a speedster, Bellesailes. We've never needed one—"

Dasy shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, a 200-yard-long flying snake that shoots rockets out its mouth. Fairly intimidating. That's always worked well in the past..."

Eggman smiled.

"Just so. Even if we were inclined to crown you speedster, Bellesailes— and I would have no strong objection, otherwise— both you and the _Egg Viper _are creatures of the _air_. Dark caverns are no place for either of you."

"I already told her that," Tatu said.

Eggman glared at the armadillo.

"Yes, you're a perfect genius, Tatu..."

Bellesailes opened her mouth; Eggman held up a finger.

"My dear, I also suspect that your request might have a bit more to do with getting yourself on equal footing with a certain cerulean mammal. Am I right?"

"The hedgehog Sonic is a threat to your operations—"

"And so would _you _be, if put in a situation to hunt him down without regard to the overarching goal of this operation."

"But—"

"Your blood is invested in this fight, Bellesailes. And that is why _you_ cannotbe. Not right now, at least."

Eggman indulged Bellesailes' tantrum awhile longer, longer than he had reason to, really. But in the end all her protestations were rebuffed, and she was left to skulk out of the operations room and watch Tatu lumber off to join the Elites. She leaned against a bulkhead, arms crossed, scowling at the party as they moved off.

One of the wolves was a straggler; it rushed to catch up to the party, black cloak brushing against Bellesailes' gnarled armor. The Dame cocked her brow when she noticed its height: it was atypical for a wolf, well over seven feet. Not so much shorter than Bellesailes' eight.

"Hey," she called.

The wolf turned, silver mask beaming under the corridor's floodlights.

Bellesailes motioned to a storage room behind her.

"There's a stuck door through here," she said.

The wolf cocked its head. It spoke with a muffled, labored voice:

"_And_?"

Bellesailes flitted her lashes:

"Well, I need some supplies from in there. Won't you please help out a poor damselfly in distress?"

The wolf was most accommodating, dutifully escorting her back into the storage room. And the wolf barely even struggled when Bellesailes came up from behind and snared its throat with her metal-studded elbow. It helped that this was her specialty; the wolf was unconscious before it even knew what happened.

She removed the flowing cloak, and then set about undoing the complex layer of buckles and straps holding the wolf's silver mask in place.

"Ugh," she grumbled. "I think I'd keep _my_ face hidden, too..."

She held up the silver mask to her face, shaking her head. This was a rather clumsy way of going about things.

"But I am _not _clumsy," she snarled.

And she could proveit.

III.

For the fifth time in as many minutes Asher nearly flew right out of his seat. When he collapsed back into the jeep's cabin he glared at Fionnghal, bracing for more bumps on the road.

"Just where did you say Thadesch managed to scrounge this... 'vehicle'?"

"He told me something about 'gift horses' and 'mouths', as I recall." Fionnghal smirked at the cottontail. She sat huddled up in the center of her seat, whole body cradling _Curtainrod _in its sheath. The base of her sword lay stuck against the floorboards, a comforting anchor as the convoy blazed across rocky terrain.

The land opened up to a sprawling limestone mesa about an hour ago. The sun climbed the horizon, burning red; shimmering waves of heat played off the pale sea of rocks they tore across. Catchie handled the jeep like an ornery bull; she tool almost sadistic pleasure in abusing the vehicle at every opportunity, and yet for all her efforts she was making incredible time.

For all the pants-wetting terror involved, Fionnghal really couldn't knock those results.

Frankly Fionnghal was surprised to see that kind of aggressiveness in the normally meek raccoon dog. Already the party was passing by a strange trough in the land. It was black scarring, complete with a hulking train of unrecognizable metal burned into the land, running in a kilometer-wide swath.

They'd already reached the _Rainbow Runner's _impact trench.

Katchy sat on the bed of the vehicle, legs dangling off the back of the jeep as he held on to the bars for dear life. Brady rode shotgun, fur absolutely brindled with terror, helplessly admonishing Catchie every few minutes, reminding her of his pointed love for life. Behind Asher and Fionnghal a slender blue leg pointed sedately at the sky; Sonic lay on his back, seemingly content with the suicidal course of the vehicle. Tails perched on his knees on the seat beside him, forcing the hedgehog's leg erect. The kit massaged the inside of Sonic's calf with gloved fingers.

"Well, at least little Miles there is content," Brady cocked his head at the small fox. "And the Banshee, of course. But then I guess an 80 mile-per-hour jaunt over nonstop speed bumps is nothing compared to running a few times the speed of sound, huh?"

"Glad he's so comfortable," Asher grumbled. "Meanwhile we're leaving our camp to the mercy of the deep woods..."

Brady chuckled.

"Oh, I did a little spot check before we left. And respectfully? Well, honest to the gods of your forefathers and all our little civvy camp is actually pretty tightly wrapped up. There's a decent screen of sensors, security drones, automated defenses, the whole nine yards. And who'd have thought, huh? Somehow that scatterbrained cheetah managed to put together a pretty decent defensive line. By _accident_, I'm sure. Kitty is a ditz, no doubt, but still: broke every record getting those things set up."

Tails looked up at the chief; he spoke even as he massaged Sonic's extended leg.

"...and she broke her collarbone, and her tibia, and her fifth rib, and her sinister hallux, and her—"

"Spindletop's accident-prone," Fionnghal answered. The rat stared at her lap; she remained stone-faced as she spoke.

Brady again chuckled.

"Well, just be sure not to give her anything more dangerous than a net gun to play with. I'd hate to be walking by when she screws up the install on a landmine, or something."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"She's really only a danger to _herself_, when she works..."

Sonic muttered to himself, apparently stirred from sleep by all this noisy conversation.

"'Sinister hallux'," he muttered. "That's a... good name... for… a band..."

Brady waved a gangly paw.

"Results are results, I guess. Still: _I _wouldn't trust that cat with anything more dangerous than a yo-yo..."

"_Fi_ trusts her," Asher said. "And if you like the thought of having Tails operate on your wounds, Thadesch gather your intelligence, or Myrtle prepare your meals, I think you should get used to that cowlicked cheetah laying down your defenses."

The sloth couldn't argue with that logic, so it shut him up pretty quickly. After a few minutes of silent terror, bouncing about haphazardly, Fionnghal loosened her death-grip on _Curtainrod_ and leaned over near Asher's floppy ear.

"You're overcompensating," she said. "You've gone all the way from denigrating me to hyping me up like a saint."

"Of course," Asher replied. "I have to."

"Still afraid I'll bug out and leave you on your lonesome, huh?"

The cottontail shook his head.

"Nah. I'm just afraid I'll get into a fistfight with you if I'm not more 'agreeable'..."

Fionnghal looked at him with a disapproving scowl.

"C'mon, Fi: I've _seen _what you do to all the guys you fight..."

The rat smirked.

"Y'know, there's a thought. I think I how we can break our ties in the future—"

"Don't start," Asher grumbled.

"Not my fault you weren't raised in the crèche; that was the perfect place to learn how to fight. Vicious, Ash. Absolutely _vicious_."

Asher smirked.

"Although it is hard to look 'vicious' when you're bobbing about butt-naked..."

"Force of habit," she shrugged. "And that was always the one rule they enforced amongst all the girls in the crèche: settle your disputes one-on-one, no weapons, and no clothes. Very practical: it helped make sure that we hotheaded juvies only fought over _important_ stuff. And it toughened us up something fierce. We damn-well _earned _all our bruises. Now, playing at balletover in the royal palace is fine, or whatever you did growing up, but—"

Asher tapped the inside of his vest, fingers brushing over the sawn-off hanging from a shoulder holster.

"_Skeet shooting_," he muttered. "And lots of it. I'll stick with shotguns, thank you very much."

"Woah!" Brady yelled. "Take a look, here: two o'clock!" The sloth pointed at the horizon.

Out in the distance a bright speck of light rose into the heavens, flickering as it burned, and with a mighty plume of smoke billowing in its wake.

"Signal," Asher deduced.

Sonic quickly sat up, pushing Tails away from him. He scanned the horizon, noticing the bright yellow smoke trailing the flare, like a colorful comet's tail.

"_Warning_ signal," the hedgehog muttered.

"Delts?" Katchie asked.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Couldn't be. They'd 'warn' us by sticking a cruise missile down our throats."

A devilish smirk blossomed over Sonic's face. He stood up on his seat, even as the jeep still bucked and heaved.

"What're you doing?" Fionnghal asked.

The hedgehog popped his knuckles.

"Gonna go show off," he said.

"We don't even know what's out there, Sonic," Asher said. "We can't risk some needless engagement—"

"Then don't," the hedgehog shrugged.

Before another word could be spoken Sonic leapt off his seat, easily clearing the front two rows. He landed on the hood, much to Catchie's surprise, and as she struggled to maintain her tenuous control of the vehicle Sonic pushed off the jeep with such force as to leave a small dent in the rusty hood. His legs braces flared in a colorful arc as he propelled himself out into the wasteland, landing hard on the earth. He didn't miss a beat—literally got a running start— and blazed across the land like a sunbeam.

Brady leaned back in his seat, paws behind his head.

"Never thought I'd see the Banshee so gung-ho about anything," he said. "I guess emerald-hunting will do that to a guy, won't it? Say, respectfully, what's his cut gonna be out of all this, anyway?"

Asher looked at Fionnghal; the rat cocked her brow.

"Whatever we can't stop him from taking, I guess," Asher said.

Brady whistled.

"That much, huh?"

IV.

The party pulled its jeep up into a narrow fissure in the land, partially protected from the yawning canyon stretched before them. Katchy leapt off the back of the vehicle.

"We sure the Banshee came _this _way?" He asked.

Fionnghal motioned to the sandy ground.

"See that, down there?"

The raccoon dog stared at the ground, blinking at a small trail of glittery scarring in the earth; it led all the way down into the canyon maw.

"What's all that?" He asked.

Tails dismounted from the vehicle gracelessly, stumbling along the ground. He stared down at the path.

"Oooh! Fulgurite!" He beamed.

"Folger-what?" Brady asked.

"Desert glass," Fionnghal explained.

"How the heck do you grow glass in the desert?" Katchy asked.

Tails ran a paw over the path, shrugging.

"Simple. A few ways. Lightning, usually. Anything, really. That is, anything that can get up to about 1800 degrees."

"Like red running shoes and quantum effects," Asher grumbled.

"_1800 degrees_?" Brady looked up from the scarred earth. "You gotta be kidding me..."

" I know," Fionnghal muttered, strolling past the sloth. "Sonic must be taking it slow and easy, for some reason."

Brady shook his head.

"Can I go on record as being a little freaked out at having that guy as our ally?"

"Join the club," Asher grumbled. "And be a little _more _freaked-out by the fact that he _isn't _really our ally." The cottontail looked back at the Katchy and his sister. "Doggies: help Miles with his equipment and let's move out."

They found Sonic about a quarter-mile down the canyon, and he wasn't alone. He was actually on the defensive, guarding himself from a series of punches and kicks, and showing a remarkable amount of self-restraint against his assailant.

It helped that his 'attacker' was all of four-feet tall.

"But keep that left block up," Sonic advised.

The juvenile before him was all fur on his face; absolutely _all _fur. If he had any eyes at all they were shrouded behind a matted forest of the stuff. A naked, fleshy nose jutted from the center of his head, or rather it _was _his whole head, as if his brain and skull merely jutted out and ended in a firm point. Bristly whiskers radiated in all directions from the massive nose's tip. Fionnghal could barely tell that the creature was smiling.

"_Moles_?" Asher whispered.

The small mole leapt up, enthusiastic, and then fell into manic circles, racing about the hedgehog.

"Whooo-eee! I'm ready! Let's go out and hunt ourselves some dragons! Oh, oh: we can go see _Hellinnrödd_, too! Let's ask him to come along with us! Bet he will! Oh, yeah: I bet he will! Whooo-eee!"

Catchie stared at the juvenile with a cocked brow.

"I'm... tired just _watching_ him," she muttered.

Footsteps sounded over the sand behind them; Fionnghal alerted, hand on her sword's hilt. An adult mole stepped out from amongst the dusty rocks, shrouded in simple, muted clothes. His body was nearly invisible amongst the stones until he moved. He looked over at Sonic.

"These must be those tribe-mates you spoke of, Sonic hedgehog."

"Not _my _tribe-mates," Sonic shook his head, still on the defensive against the mole juvenile.

The adult mole faced Fionnghal's group, furry face squinting pensively. His massive whiskers bristled in what she assumed was a quizzical display.

Asher stepped forward, one fist cemented against his chest.

"We are Theta Tribe—"

"We know that much," the mole answered. "My name is Hardwigg, Speedster of Tau Tribe."

"Tau?" Fionnghal said. "I didn't know that a tribe with that designation existed."

"Most don't," Hardwigg said. "To put it mildly, we value our privacy a great deal. There are many amongst us who find outside interactions... 'distasteful'."

"'Many', Hardwigg? Really..."

Another mole approached from a corner around the canyon's rim. This one carried himself with a certain regal bent, if a squat-bodied creature like a mole could possibly do so in the first place. He wore purple-dyed clothing, in contrast to Hardwigg's dun-colored attire, and his whiskery nose bristled with a certain irritation.

"_All _my citizens are of one accord on _that_, to be certain," he said.

Hardwigg nodded his head slightly, motioning to this mole deferentially.

"Of course. May I present our leader, Amadeo," he said.

Amadeo put one fist to his chest, nodding at the group.

"Forgive me if you might find our hospitality lacking; by design we so seldom receive visitors to Cake Rim."

Fionnghal tilted her head.

"'Cake Rim'?"

"Our colony," Hardwigg explained.

"I thought you said your tribe was _Tau_."

Amadeo smiled.

"We provide you the translation. It's more 'pronounceable' to outside tongues than in our lowspeak. To us this land is called _Ta'ehir_ _De'ruzh_."

Tails looked down at his shoes for a second, and then back up at the adults.

"Oh! I get it!" He said.

Everyone looked down at the little kit. Fionnghal and Asher exchanged puzzled glances, but then returned their focus to Amadeo.

"Moving right along," Asher muttered, "my name is—"

"Asher Shope," Amadeo finished. He pointed at the rest of the group. "And Fionnghal De'Sulum, your security chief Brady, the two raccoon dogs with one name, and young Miles Prower."

"You're very well-informed," Fionnghal said.

Hardwigg motioned to Sonic.

"Your Speedster was good enough to tell us about you all the other day—"

Sonic clucked his tongue, wagging a finger.

"I told you, Hardy: I'm not _their _Speedster."

"Ah, yes, of course," the mole apologized. "You control a territory; a forest, right?"

"Yeah, he speaks for the trees," Fionnghal muttered.

"Well, whatever relation to him you may be," Amadeo said, "anyone associated with Sonic here is certainly welcome to visit Cake Rim for a spell. He's nothing short of god-sent to us, after all, and as delightful as we are to host him, we'd be equally delighted to forgo our usual isolationist position and host you all for a time, as well."

Brady's overgrown brow wrinkled up.

"Uh... 'delightful'… and god-sent? The Banshee?"

Amadeo nodded. Sonic, still standing behind him, crossed his arms and nodded, face beaming with a sardonic grin.

"_Sonic hedgehog_?"

"But of course," Amadeo said.

Brady pointed at Sonic.

"We're... we're talking about that blue hedgehog standing behind you, right? That one _right _there?"

Fionnghal leaned up to the sloth's ear

"You're itching for a smacking, Brapes. Can the curiosity!"

"_Amazement_, not curiosity," he muttered.

Amadeo gestured for the group to follow him further down into the canyon. Asher leaned close to Fionnghal during their walk.

"Gotta say, I have my own 'amazement' as well..."

V.

The party descended into the canyon, eventually coming to a massive overhang of rock covering a winding trail that plunged deep beneath the sands. The rock walls here were variegated, painted in sickly sulfurous hues.

"Massive lakes of lava flowed here, in prehistory," Amadeo explained. "The great fissures below were carved by them. We began our excavations with these. Even now they remain the deepest troughs of our domain." The mole looked over at Asher. "Although I suppose none of you are here for a geology lesson, isn't that right?"

Tails slowly began raising his hand; Fionnghal tapped her fingers on the bandage over his eye, clucking her tongue.

Asher coughed delicately.

"In truth, we're looking for a certain... uh, 'artifact'—"

"A fragment of the Master Emerald, correct?" Hardwigg said. The mole registered Asher's surprise, and he cocked his head at Sonic. "Sonic here was good enough to explain the reason for your visit."

Asher glared at the hedgehog.

"Oh, he did, did he?"

Amadeo laughed.

"Do not be so surprised, Asher Shope. This hedgehog's honesty is a credit to his species. Now, we've been made somewhat aware of the situation, and the 'politics' involved. Put simply: they do not concern us. Not even in the slightest. To be even more blunt: we don't wish any involvement with you, or your friends, or even your enemies."

"Don't you maintain relations with _any _of the tribes?" Fionnghal asked.

Amadeo shook his head.

"Virtually none, no. Oh, there's always the little things we need to scavenge from the surface to suit our needs. But the whole pointof Cake Rim is autonomy. You see, our ancestors reveled in the darkness of the deep, back when the planet was, well, a darker place. When the planet came out of its archaic savagery we came to the surface, but we were ever mindful of our species' ability to thrive in the depths."

"And now you're all just retreating back to the darkness?" Brady asked.

Amadeo looked over at the sloth, face contorted with the deep wrinkles of a scowl.

"The planet retreats back to savagery," he answered. "It seems appropriate, does it not? The Time of the Tribes is no time for any decent mole to show his face on the surface."

"I can understand your concerns," Asher said. "We don't want to complicate your situation—"

Amadeo scoffed.

"Not to be rude, but it's a little late for that, isn't it? Not every day you have a city-sized spacecraft land on your roof. "

"Did the crash damage your caverns?" Fionnghal asked.

"No. Not the settled ones, at least. We excavate deeper into the earth all the time, however, and this '_Runner_' ship has bisected several of our deeper tunnels still under construction. The piece of the ship that landed on us buried itself quite deep, exposing territory heretofore inaccessible to us. We believe that this is also the point where the Master Emerald fragment lays embedded."

"You haven't attempted to recover it?" Brady asked.

Hardwigg clucked his tongue.

"Uh, there's a slight problem with that," he began.

"Which we will discuss in due time," Amadeo glared at his subordinate. "In the meantime I invite you to partake of our hospitality, as it is. Ah, and here's Davidinia: so nice of you to join us, my dear!"

A female mole emerged from the darkness of the overhang to greet the group. Her fur was slightly less matted and bedraggled than the males, and her beady eyes were just barely visible beneath it. Also visible was a prominent baby-bump.

"My mate," Amadeo said. "And, of course, you've already met Père, my eldest." He motioned to the juvenile mole, who was currently (and unsuccessfully) attempting to engage Tails in horseplay.

Davidinia hissed at the little mole, bidding him to join her side, which he sheepishly did.

"Welcome to Cake Rim," she said to the party. "From what Amadeo tells me it seems that you all will be a _great_ help to our colony."

Asher cocked his head.

"'Help'?"

"In removing that damnable piece of emerald," Amadeo replied quickly. "As I said previously, Asher Shope, you needn't have any fear: you'll have absolutely no objection from us. You are welcome to remove the Master Emerald fragment at your earliest convenience."

"Really?" Fionnghal scrunched her face. "You mean... you don't _want _the fragment? You're willing to just give it up to us?"

"Indeed. And for free, at that. The way we see it this emerald fragment is nothing more than a troublesome magnet, sure to attract all manner of attention to our secluded tribe. The sooner we're rid of it, the better. By removing it from our tribal land, you in fact do us a great service. But now come, allow us to introduce you to others in the tribe."

Père leapt up at this, tugging on his father's elegant cloak.

"Oh, oh: Father! And let me show 'em _Hellinnrödd_! It'd be way, way cool! They'd love to meet him! And he'd be _real _happy for the company!"

Amadeo gripped the juvenile's wrist sternly.

"_Not now_, Père!"

"But, Father!"

"Enough out of you!" He snapped.

Fionnghal watched this exchange with a curious expression. She looked over at Davidinia, who smiled gently.

"Pay him no heed," Davidinia whispered. "'_Hellinnrödd_'is Père's imaginary little friend. He 'lives' in the shallow caverns north of here. Père invented him one day during his little adventures out there. Honestly, the imagination of small juveniles! Do you have any of your own?"

"Juveniles? Oh, no," Fionnghal shook her head.

"A shame. You really should, you know."

The rat smirked.

"That thought is... well, somewhat _unimaginable_."

"They're our best hope for the future, after all." Davidinia ran one paw over her belly as they watched Amadeo disciplining Père. "Our _only _hope, really. Above all we must do whatever is necessary to keep them safe." She looked down at her stomach, frowning. "_Whatever_ is necessary..."

Fionnghal looked over at the mole.

"Uh, you okay?"

Davidinia quickly looked up at her, again smiling.

"I... oh, of course. I'm just being dramatic, that's all." She said.

Davidinia and Amadeo had a brief private chat, during which she motioned sternly to Père while speaking to her mate. Afterwards Amadeo quietly ordered Père off to play elsewhere.

"Can I bring the little fox along?" Père asked. "We could go see _Hellinnrödd_, together!"

Tails shied behind Fionnghal's backside, peeking out timidly from around her waist.

"Just _go_," Amadeo ordered. "Go and see 'him' by yourself, alright?"

"And have fun," Davidinia called out as the little mole scampered off.

Amadeo looked back at the party, his conical face a bit dour.

"Well, my apologies. Juveniles, you see, can be so troublesome..."

Fionnghal pointed at the mole.

"Now _that_ I understand," she said.

VI.

About an hour later the party stood atop a prominent ridge overlooking the sunken entrance to Cake Rim. Beyond this the desert valley extended to the horizon. The sun beamed over the land with slipshod rays and the air rippled with hazy waves.

Tails lay on his stomach, playing with the sensors on a laptop computer. The raccoon dog twins stood in awkward poses, each of them holding up glowing receiver boxes in each hand. The little kit continually barked commands for them to reposition themselves, but his orders were somewhat less than clear.

"Reorient," he muttered, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Y-grid, three inch."

Asher motioned to Katchie:

"He means you need to lift yours up over your head. Just a little bit..."

Tails continued:

"Rotate 3.5 radians. Positive directional."

Asher motioned to Catchie:

"Turn around clockwise, about halfway..."

Tails leaned closer to his monitor:

"Okay: position bodies to complete positive asymptote, in regard to x-grid vector output."

The raccoon dogs looked over at Asher; who grit his teeth, stammering.

"Uh..."

Sonic lay on his side, dozing. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, scanning the diagram on Tails' monitor.

"Boy-dog: two feet that way," he motioned. "And girl-dog: two feet _that _way," he motioned in the opposite direction.

Tails fiddled with his monitor some more. Fionnghal sat beside Sonic, staring out into the desert. The spiky husk of a substantial piece of the _Rainbow Runner _jutted from the land, right at the end of a fearsome network of deep canals set into the land to the north.

"Père's caverns," she muttered, staring at the formations. "That part of the land looks _natural_. The ship must have 'skipped' over it as it crashed."

Sonic scoffed.

"Mmm. Natural or not who knows what kind of debris fell off the _Runner_ as it went skipping over the land. I wouldn't let _my _juvie go running off to play out there like that. But then I won't put juvies at risk in the first place."

Fionnghal looked over at the hedgehog.

"Speaking of 'natural', Sonic: what's the deal?"

"Deal?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "You've known these moles for less than 24 hours and they're treating you like a member of the family."

"I have a magnetic personality," he smirked.

"Only when you want something," she muttered. "And even then: your reputation should carry over out here. And, if you forgot, your reputation is for being the _Banshee_."

"I'm a _cuddly _Banshee," he beamed.

Fionnghal scowled at him.

Sonic toyed with a few pebbles in the dirt.

"Alright, Pew. Fine. If you gotta know, it so happens that, when I came out here the other day I saw Père up on the Cake Rim overhang. He was fighting imaginary dragons, or something. That juvie's got a lot more energy than sense, you know—"

"That's the definition of a 'juvie'," Fionnghal said. "What exactly happened?"

"Oh, Hardwigg and a few other moles were down on the canyon floor, warning Père to come down and stop acting like a spazz. Poor little guy must've lost his footing, or something, because he took the _express _route down..."

"He _fell_?"

Sonic scoffed.

"Oh, yeah. Luckily I was close enough to get under him and break his fall. Acceleration of gravity's got nothing on my QEDs."

"It helps that gravity has to obey the laws of physics," Fionnghal muttered.

"Anyway, after saving the little tyke's life Amadeo was suitably impressed with me. I got an official audience with him and everything. That's when I filled him in on the Master Emerald—"

"About that," Fionnghal interrupted. "It would be nice if they all _didn't _know about that—"

Sonic held up a finger and wagged it back and forth:

"Mmm, mmm." He said. "I sized these people up the minute I met with them. You heard Amadeo, himself: guy's a dyed-in-the-wool xenophobe. He wants nothing to do with the rest of Mobius, and my sales pitch to him was simple: if _we _found the Master Emerald here, then _anyone _could, so long as Cake Rim has it. Even with the emerald's power in their hands they would be the center of attention on this planet, and these guys would rather _not_ be the center of attention. I promised that you all could remove it quickly, and quietly. No muss, no fuss."

Fionnghal leaned back, appreciating this logic. A small smile wormed over her fuzzy face.

"Sonic: I see what you did there."

The hedgehog cocked his head.

"What?"

"You neg—"

"I _threatened_," he muttered. "Offhandedly, at least. In a world like this, it's only _threats _that can make a difference, you know."

Fionnghal stared at the ground, shrugging.

"Don't tell me you disagree, Pew?" Sonic said.

"No," she answered. "It sounds like something _I _might believe in. It's just that, well, I find it hard to believe that _you _believe that."

Sonic looked out over the horizon, black eyes expressionless in the setting sun.

"_Believe _it," he muttered.

They sat in silence a time, watching as Tails worked his monitor. Eventually Fionnghal looked back over at him:

"Wait a minute," she said. "You say that Père fell off the overhang _right _when you wandered by Cake Rim?"

Sonic again looked at the ground, toying with pebbles.

"Back luck, and good timing," he muttered.

Fionnghal crossed her arms.

"Sonic..."

The hedgehog looked up at her, sneering. He spun a small pebble on one of his fingers, holding it up expressively. Fionnghal's eyes widened.

"What the _hell_, Sonic?"

"Relax. I was always in range to make the save. Gave myself plenty of extra time, too. I _don't _put juvies at risk, Pew."

"But it's the principle of the thing—"

Sonic laughed.

"'Principles'? From _you_? Oh, that is _adorable_!"

Fionnghal's eyes burned cold. She got up and kicked a mess of sand into Sonic's face. He didn't react, merely closing his eyes, and the rat stormed off away from him.

Brady broke the awkward silence after Fionnghal was out of range.

"You know, beyond the bluster, Mistress has a skin like crocodile leather," he said. "Kinda amazing that you can slice into it like butter..."

"Where are we with the scanners, Miles?" Asher asked.

Tails' big eyes glowed, set against the shimmering green screen before him. The kit kicked his legs up in the air absently as he worked.

"Calibrating..." he muttered. "Need a baseline..."

He suddenly pointed his finger in a random direction, grunting absently. The raccoon dogs stared down at him, wobbling on their feet awkwardly, like seasick ballet dancers.

"_Point them_," he muttered. "There."

The siblings gently rotated the boxy sensors in their hands, pointing them due east at a series of mountains shimmering in the far distance.

Tails checked his screen, nodding.

"Mmmm. 'Kay. Now _there_." He pointed in another random direction.

The siblings then pointed the sensors northward, in the direction of Père's little cave network, just beside the _Runner's _rusting husk.

Suddenly the kit's screen flared to life. The device's hard drive screamed and a mess of colors flashed on the monitor. Soon all the text and numbers disappeared, replaced with a haphazard, disjointed mess of new numbers and letters repeating themselves all across the screen, without end.

"—TkJPV01ZUkFJTkJPV01ZUkFJTkJP V01ZUkFJTkJPV01ZUkFJTkJPV01Z UkFJTkJPV01ZUkFJ—"

The little kit scowled, pounding on the side of his monitor.

"What's all that?" Asher asked.

Tails shook his head.

"An error," he muttered. "Bad calibration, I guess..."

"How so?"

"It's _gibberish_," Tails muttered. The kit's ears suddenly twitched, as if he were caught in a daydream. "Well, gibberish in _Base-27_, at least."

"Then it _is _gibberish," Asher grumbled. "Just get on with it, please..."

The kit cocked his head very slowly as he stared at the text, but then suddenly snapped back to attention. He continued working the keyboard.

"Well, it's certainly a _loud _error," Sonic noted, listening to the computer's hard drive screech. "You're gonna start drilling a hole through your casing in a minute."

Eventually Tails got his ducks in a row and reset the system, thanks in no small part to Katchy and Catchie's admirable little ballet. By the time he was finished the twins looked ready to plop down on the sand and pass out.

"Emerald presence confirmed," Tails said. "Distance from surface is point-five kilometers. The ship's hull is acting as a signal conductor."

"Can we track it reliably underground now?" Asher asked.

Tails looked up at the cottontail.

"Uh: dunno. _Can _you?"

Sonic first snorted, and then rolled over on his back, laughing his blue rear end off.

Asher rolled his eyes and looked back at the canyon behind him.

"Let's go get Fi. I need her to translate for us," he muttered.

They found Fionnghal down under the Cake Rim overhang, reclining on a rock beside Davidinia, who sat propped up on an intricately adorned pillow. The rat got enough out of Tails to confirm that, yes, they had the Master Emerald's signal. And yes: they could track it underground.

Amadeo came out from the darkness to meet them shortly thereafter.

"Excellent," he commented upon hearing the news. "Perhaps once you've plucked this thing from our land we can finally return to some sense of normalcy around here. Ever since that damnable ship landed on us we've been most out of sorts, here. You can't imagine how disruptive it's been. Even from the very minute our sentries outside saw the vessel crash."

_"That _must have been a sight," Asher said.

Amadeo scoffed.

"Too much for the eyes a simple mole, believe me. Why, just after it landed all manner of stories have circulated about. People get superstitious in times of crisis, you see. Our sentries even swear that it was no mere human vessel that touched down here, but rather something else: a great snake, coiled in flames, forced down out of the sky on the nose of that crippled ship."

"Reentry burn," Tails nodded. "Thermal glow. Shimmer, glimmer. Like aurora. Little hotter, though."

Amadeo chuckled.

"Tell that to my citizens!" He said. "They act so much like my scatterbrained little son! I find myself having to keep reminding them: there are no such things as dragons!"

Suddenly the air above them screamed. The clouds parted, rent apart like foam in a bubble bath, and out of the air a cruel-looking metal tail swished about, clanking on oiled gears. Above it the body of the _Egg Viper_ loomed, descending on flaming rockets. The airship paused about a kilometer from the canyon rim, head pointed down at the group and bobbing in a menacing fashion.

Sonic crossed his arms, sneering.

"Drama king," he grumbled.

"_That_," Amadeo stammered, pointing at the massive ship, "is not going to make my job any easier..."

Fionnghal and Asher exchanged sullen glances.

"Or _ours_," she muttered.


	13. Heaven Below

"Heaven Below"

I.

The chamber was elegant, if a bit on the creepy and sinister side, as well. Down here the hard stone walls were carved with loving detail, wrought with elaborate and symmetrical designs. Even a rim of faux crown molding graced the top of them, offering a quaint and homey touch to the drab stone chamber.

It almost made you forget that you were 200 feet underground, nestled in an excavated cavern, rear plastered on a cold stone bench. Oh, yeah: and you were sitting in front of six individuals that really, really wanted you dead at the moment.

Five full minutes of dead silence was just too much. Brady thought he might try breaking the ice. The sloth leaned forward, resting his lanky arms on the stone conference table.

"Well, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here, today."

The four silver-masked wolves turned to face the sloth. Their headgear's empty sockets leered at him. The brass-faced wolf sitting at table center paid Brady no heed. Tatu, sitting off to the far side of the table with a paw held wearily over his forehead, merely rolled his eyes.

Asher and Fionnghal bared their teeth at him. The hiss from Fionnghal's curled lips made it even more explicit: breaking the ice was apparently _not _the right thing to do.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I, uh, kinda always wanted to say that..."

Soon Amadeo entered the room, delicately opening and closing a wood-trimmed door behind him. It was a dazzling thing, hewn of glittering gem fragments set into small nooks all throughout the wood frame. It cast light playfully every which way, brightening the room considerably. Any one of the stones in that door was worth a small fortune. But nobody sitting around that table was interested in any of the precious stones embedded in that door.

They all had a decidedly differentgem on their minds.

"Greatest apologies!" Amadeo bowed at the seated group. "The meeting with our counsel took longer than anticipated. And this certainly _is _a problem that requires deliberation." He turned to Hardwigg, who stood against a far corner of the room, flanked by a quartet of fellow moles. "I trust our guests weren't too terribly... 'inconvenienced'?"

"They're behaving themselves, if that's what you mean—"

Amadeo wagged his head, taking a seat at the head of the table.

"Oh, no, no, no! Of course they are. Why, that's not what I meant! Not at all!"

Still, Amadeo never explained what he _did _mean.

"Er, now then," Amadeo gestured to the wolves. "We were so briefly introduced to you topside, but perhaps a more formal introduction is in order?"

The brass-faced wolf slowly rose out of his chair; Asher and Fionnghal's wrists gripped the stone arms of their chairs tight as he did so. The wolf bowed briefly in Amadeo's direction.

"I represent the interests of Delta Tribe here, today," he rasped. "And in the spirit of tribal harmony, we in Delta offer our friendship and cooperation to all around this table, today..."

The wolf's cloak billowed up as he raised an armor-bound paw, pointing his gauntlet across the table at Asher and Fionnghal.

"...except for the members of Theta Tribe, with whom we are currently at war—"

Amadeo waved a paw.

"Uh, yes, right. As you've previously said. But I actually meant _introductions_. Perhaps your names, to start? Only if you'd be so kind..."

The wolf turned its shiny mask in Amadeo's direction; it cemented one fist to its chest.

"As a leading officer of the Dolamiram Wolf Pack I have no identity beyond my station."

The mole's conical face wrinkled like a shriveled lemon wedge. Brady could tell that Amadeo was blinking in confusion.

"But, then... er?"

"You may call me 'The Brass'," the wolf said.

"Easy to remember," Brady muttered.

The brass-faced wolf gestured at the four silver-masked wolves seated around him in turn:

"This is The Howling, The Hunting, The Ranging, and The Denning. They represent the four chiefs of our primary stations: communications, armed forces, intelligence, and domestic affairs, respectively. They all join me today because this matter concerns all possible branches of our pack. We would request that the Master Emerald fragment in Tau Tribe's possession be returned to its rightful owner: the human known to this world as 'Eggman'."

Asher shook his head.

"The Master Emerald is a _Mobian _artifact; it is for the hands of Mobians, alone."

"That emerald was divided under an agreement between humans and Mobians," The Brass answered. "As such, Eggman is entitled to—"

"_Nothing_," Asher interrupted. "That deal was made under the color of a tribe that no longer exists. We are not Omega Tribe, doggie."

The Brass cocked its head, a plume of steam billowing into the dank cavern air.

"Yet you make the same _mistakes_, cottontail..."

Amadeo waved his paws in the air, standing up.

"Right, right, right. I can see that this issue is… 'contentious'—"

"Our claim on the property is valid," The Brass snorted, "and it would be a mistake to shun our offer of friendship."

Hardwigg stepped forward a few paces, head cocked.

"Pardon: Is that a threat, sir?"

"It is a sad reality, Speedster of Tau."

Asher sat back in his stone chair. He slouched, putting one knee on the table in front of him.

"As long as we're tossing around threats," he said, "you should know, Amadeo, that we'll do whatever we can to keep Delta Tribe from getting their hands on that fragment."

The Brass faced Asher.

"You would threaten _us_, Prince Shope, even as we sit in negotiations?"

"The threat wasn't directed at you, doggie."

Fionnghal looked over at Asher, blue eyes questioning. For his part Asher looked over at Amadeo, toying with one of his shotgun shells as he spoke.

"For the good of this planet Delta Tribe _can't _have that fragment. I'm sorry Amadeo, but you need to understand that. And you do _not _need to see the lengths we'll go to in order to keep that from happening. Someone might very well get _shot_."

Hardwigg's conical face brindled.

"Now that _was_ a threat," he muttered.

"More a hypothetical," Brady muttered.

Amadeo sat back in his chair, looking between the two icy sides. The mole coughed politely, uneasily, and brushed the whiskers radiating from his protruding nose as if he were petting a housecat.

"Uh, well then. Perhaps with all the... 'pleasantries' out of the way you might allow me to explain a certain small rub to all of this. You see, most worthy tribe-folk, it may be that all your efforts to secure the Master Emerald chunk may be, er, 'academic'."

Fionnghal cocked her head.

"Academic?" She muttered. "What's that mean, exactly?"

Tatu leaned forward, plastering his gargantuan stone fists on the conference table. His granite face wrinkled up with deep fissures.

"It means someone just _might_ get shot, after all," he growled.

Amadeo slowly rose out of his chair, gesturing at Tatu with a delicate paw.

"Well, please understand: we certainly _hope _this damnable relic can be removed from our land. Of _course _we do! But there is a significant problem in reaching it, at the moment."

"What kind of problem?" Asher asked. "You said it was lodged along a series of tunnels you'd already dug."

"Something is blocking the path?" The Brass asked. "A cave-in?"

Hardwigg shook his head.

"Not exactly," he said.

"Perhaps we'd all best take a little walk?" Amadeo suggested. "Once you've seen the situation, I think that the problem will become quite clear."

II.

Catchie stared at the wide stone doors leading into the conference room. The imposing slabs of etched rock lay tightly shut, and they were liable to stay that way until their leaders could iron out some kind of understanding.

Or until they killed each other. Whichever came first.

Before them three of the Elites congregated, speaking softly amongst themselves. In their Cimmerian cloaks their bodies were nearly invisible against the bleak cavern walls. The harsh light of the antechamber beamed off their silver facemasks.

Katchy paced back and forth, his rifle resting against the back of his neck, arms propped up on either side of it. Every time his steps brought him close to the wolf pack near the door the creatures' silver masks turned to face him, burning with blank hostility. Katchy smiled at them politely each time he approached.

He whispered to his sister as he paced back towards her:

"Ten servings of wild game says everybody in there ends up fighting to the death. And _twenty _servings says that Mistress Fionnghal is the only one who comes back out of there alive. _Dripping _blood, too!"

Catchie smiled at this, faintly, before frowning and walking off a ways. She moved to a nearby bench, carved entirely out of the stone walls. It was flanked by a twin bench opposite, and perched upon that bench was a fourth Elite. This one was taller; even in its billowing cloak it seemed lankier than the average wolf soldier. Catchie set her own rifle against the wall and prepared to sit down. At the last moment she thought better of this and looked over at the tall wolf, gesturing to the bench.

"Uh, is it okay if I sit here?" She asked.

The tall wolf didn't respond. The hollow eyes of its mask leered out at Catchie. Eventually the wolf looked down at the bench, shrugging its head, and returned its gaze to level.

"Thank you," Catchie whispered. She sat down, resting her bony elbows on her knees, and sighed. "This is quite a thing, isn't it? The whole situation, I mean..."

The wolf merely stared at the raccoon dog. It did not say anything.

"I wonder what our leaders'll do in there. How they'll iron this all out, I mean. It's amazing that the moles down here are gonna let someone just take the emerald fragment from their land, like this. You know, I don't really agree with my brother on this; I wonder if it _is _possible to talk this whole thing out. I guess it would be amazing, kind of, if none of us had to fight each other. I suppose I'd rather not have to fight you all, if possible..."

The wolf's silver mask remained silent and stationary.

Catchie swallowed uncomfortably. She spread her legs a bit, feeling the reassuring bump of the rifle on the bench beside her. "I mean, I _would _fight you, you know, but..."

The hollow eyes of the mask loomed before her.

Catchie looked off to one side, eyes cast askew.

"It's fine if you don't want to talk to me," she said. "We're your enemies, right? I understand that. But... is it just because of that, or is it because we're... like you? I hope it's not. My brother and I have reasons for why we're not sitting on the same side of the fence that you are. Some of our reasons are selfish, and some of them aren't, but, really, what good does it do for you all to ignore us?"

The silver mask was quiet.

The raccoon dog swallowed uncomfortably and stood up, slowly taking her rife up as well.

"I'm, uh, sorry to disturb you. I just haven't spoken to another canine in so long. It's good to... er, uh, never mind. Forget it. I..." she scratched the nape of her neck, shaking her head. "You must think me very clumsy. I... I certainly _feel _that way, truth be told..."

The masked head tilted, slowly, to one side. Still the wolf beneath it said nothing.

Stone doors at the opposite end of the long chamber burst open. Shadows danced around the cruel outline of a spiky headed hedgehog. Sonic tromped through the corridor, his feet hammering the cold stone floor with impudent strikes. He was followed by Tails. The hedgehog nodded at Catchie as he passed her.

"How's it hangin', Girl-Dog?" He muttered.

Sonic didn't wait for an answer. He kept straight ahead, stopping near Katchy, and then he motioned to the barred door before them.

"They're _still_ in there?" He growled.

"Delicate process, I guess," Katchy shrugged.

"Should've known the doggies were gonna drag things out. Why else would they bring in all their 'gerunds' to the negotiation, huh?"

"I've never actually seen someone try negotiating with the wolves before—"

"Disaster waiting to happen. _Every time_." Sonic shook his head. "Wolves have got ideas about 'honor', and they think everyone _else _hasthe same ideas about honor. Sit a good 'rules lawyer' down across the table from a wolf and within an afternoon you'll have his juveniles' fur coats for throw rugs. It's sad, really. Well, it _would _be, but not really..."

"Why?" Catchy asked.

Sonic looked at the raccoon dog, brandishing a terrible smirk:

"'Cause when you throw technicalities at them the doggies get mad," he cooed. "And when they get mad, theythrow _bodies _into walls. Through walls, if you _really _tick 'em off. Doesn't matter: neither of your leaders in there is a very good 'rules lawyer'. Fionnghal on account of her brains, and Asher..."

"What's Asher's problem?"

Sonic shrugged.

"Lack of confidence, I suppose."

Katchy smiled.

"Well, I'm just surprised that we haven't heard any gunshots, yet..."

The tall wolf leered at Sonic. Even with its expressionless mask there was a certain determined bent to its posture, and a lethal attentiveness to its gaze. Even since the hedgehog entered the wolf had followed him, empty eyes fixed exclusively on him, as if the rest of the world didn't even exist. The wolf's breaths grew long, calm, and ominously precise.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the wolf's gloved paw slid up from its cloak. The barrel of its pistol gleamed with a deadly luster.

"Your Mistress might not even let things _get_ to gunshots, you know," Sonic muttered.

Katchy nodded.

"With that glowy sword of hers you might be right about that. It's a really devilish thing..."

The tall wolf inched the weapon over to its lap, hollow eyes still burning holes in Sonic's back.

"Yes, it is," Sonic answered, crossing his arms. He looked over at Katchy. "You know, _whoever _gave her that thing was a monumental idiot."

"Think so?" Katchy said.

Sonic stared down at his shoes, shaking his head.

"Oh, _believe _me, he was..." the hedgehog growled.

The tall wolf rested its finger on the trigger; it leaned forward, slowly, calmly, precisely...

Catchy gripped the wolf's shoulder; it reared back, whipping its head about to face her. The raccoon dog stepped back, hands stretched to her sides. She whispered at the wolf very softly:

"I wouldn't. Not if I were you. I know you all think that he's our ally, but he isn't. The Banshee's not here on our behalf; he's in this for himself, because of what _he _wants out of this situation. If you shoot him right now then _everybody _down here starts shooting. It'd be amazing if we didn't have to fight, but if we _do _have to fight then it shouldn't be because of _him_. No, _not _because of him! He's an outsider, and an opportunist. Don't start a bloodbath over him."

The wolf's mask leered at Catchy; if blackness could boil over then its dark eye sockets would be roiling cauldrons.

"_Please_?" Catchy whispered.

"Listen to the Girl-Dog," Sonic grumbled.

Both the wolf and Catchie looked over at Sonic; the hedgehog still stood beside Katchy, but now his spiky head was turned in profile.

"You'll live much, _much _longer," he said to the wolf.

Seconds passed; no one moved.

Slowly, quietly, the tall wolf placed its pistol back into its holster.

"Good dog," Sonic pursed his lips playfully as he spoke.

A hiss of rage sounded beneath the silver wolf mask. Catchie was a touch surprised by it. The pitch was high and oscillating; it didn't sound entirely canine. But then the massive doors before them rumbled. They swung open and struck the stone walls with a reverberating bang that echoed like a canon's blast.

Hardwigg and his mole troops emerged from the conference room, followed by all the dignitaries. The brass-faced wolf and his four cohorts huddled-up with the other Elites, while Asher, Brady and Fionnghal approached the raccoon dogs.

"We're moving out," Asher said. "Lock and load, and eyes open."

"Where to?" Katchy asked.

Fionnghal shored-up her belt, making sure _Curtainrod _was properly situated and within easy access of her paw.

"Field trip," she said.

III.

Amadeo and Hardwigg led the party deep into the black recesses of Cake Rim. Fionnghal couldn't help but feel self-conscious as hell about the situation; her eyesight was hardly decent, even in full sunlight, but down here, amongst the tended paths of ghostly green glow-sticks and low-watt light panels she was nearly flying blind.

At one point she got sick of this; Fionnghal detached _Curtainrod _from her belt and took it up in her left hand.

And then all the wolves in their unhappy little party leapt back, bodies tensed.

She looked back at the canines, her face cold with ennui, and then batted her lashes at them mockingly. With a twist of her wrist the blade erupted with blue fire, bathing the caverns in harsh light.

"You wouldn't deprive a lady of a little light, would you?" She teased.

"I'll let you know if we come across any," Tatu said.

As their uneasy walk continued Tatu slowly fell in alongside Fionnghal, who reflexively distanced herself from him like a repulsed magnet. The armadillo slowly separated her out from the rest of the group with this method; after a time the rat cast a few pensive glances at the armadillo before showing him her teeth.

"Something I can help you with, Tat?" She hissed.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Only hurts when it rains..."

"Thallomoor must be hell for you, then," he said. "You should try the Dolamiram; no rain there..."

"No _soul_, either," she growled.

The armadillo chuckled.

"You a child of nature now, Fi? Dolamiram's not so bad. Dry weather does wonders for the skin—"

"Two things. One: are you recruiting me, or something? And two: are you out of your ever-loving mind?"

Tatu shook his head.

"Eggman would take you in a second, Fi, but I guess you don't have any need for him, do you?"

"Damn right I don't," she growled.

Tatu shrugged.

"Nope. No, you're just content to cast your lot in with Ash and the rest of 'em, huh?" Tatu looked over at the rat. He clucked his tongue, shaking his burly head dramatically.

"_What_?" Fionnghal barked.

"Nothing," he said. "It's just something funny I was thinking about. Something funny about Eggman, I mean..."

"_Comedic_ genius he ain't," Fionnghal said.

Tatu shook his head.

"Not _that _kind of funny..."

"_What_, then?"

"Well," Tatu said, "it's funny, because Eggman doesn't really _care _about the color of someone's fur."

The rat's ears twitched.

"Not one bit," Tatu said. "Isn't that funny. Isn't that _hilarious_?"

They walked in silence for a few seconds; Fionnghal finally answered him.

"That's right," she said. "He's an equal-opportunity destroyer: he wants all Mobians _equally _dead—"

"You _really_ believe that?"

Fionnghal glared at him.

"Do _you_ really believe you can play both sides?"

Now it was Tatu's turn to be silent for a moment.

"I don't know what you mean—"

"Spare me. Ash is smarter than me—he's a hell of a lot smarter than _you_— and he saw through your little charade in short order. And Eggman's a flipping _genius_, Tat; what do you think your odds are against his vast powers of deduction?"

"_In_duction..."

Fionnghal and Tatu looked down to their left: Tails had strayed from the group, and the little kit now walked close beside them. When he noticed the subsequent silence he looked up at Fionnghal:

"_Induction_, not deduction. It's specificexamples leading to a general principle. Namely: _specific_ acts suggestive of _general_ treachery. That's inductive logic. So, induction, not deduction—"

"Go suck an egg, juvie," Tatu snarled.

Tails appeared greatly puzzled by this request, and his pace slowed considerably as he considered this activity. It gave the pair enough time to escape his ears and continue exchanging their unpleasantries:

"I command the Regulars, Fi," Tatu grumbled. "I lead them as_ I_ see fit—"

"You _still _think you're the master of your destiny? Then why're you on the doggies' leash _now_, huh?"

The armadillo looked away, blinking his sunken yellow eyes.

"The wolves insisted—"

The rat scoffed.

"I'll tell you who 'insisted': someone with a lot less fur on his hide, that's who! How pathetic!"

Tatu put a hand on the rat's shoulder.

"Fi, just _listen _to me—"

Hot blood seared through her veins; Fionnghal violently shoved the armadillo away from her, instinctively landing an upward blow to his jaw with her palm. Tatu stumbled, trying to approach her again, but this time she brandished her sword and rested the tip against Tatu's sternum.

The sound of bullets loading into chambers echoed all around them. The wolves aimed at Fionnghal, the raccoon dogs aimed at the wolves, Asher aimed at The Brass, and the tall wolf lagging behind the group aimed its weapon at Sonic.

And Sonic yawned.

For a time only Fionnghal's labored breaths sounded in the cavern; after a moment she slowly lowered _Curtainrod_.

"I'm not gonna kill you, Tat—"

"Probably a wise decision," The Brass noted.

The rat wagged her sword at the armadillo:

"You'd better pay M'quelo his blood money _fast_— if you haven't already— 'cause I'm coming for _him_." The rat's voice was a hissing whisper, more reminiscent of a cobra than a rat. "And when I get my hands on that slippery bastard I'm gonna get every _shred _of intel I can get out of his worthless wrinkly body. I'm gonna cuthim apart— _live_— and I'm gonna _fry _him, and then I'm gonna _eat _him with marinara sauce! And I'll send what's left of his rotting carcass to you in a _box_!"

"That'd be a mistake," Tatu growled.

Fionnghal tilted her head.

"Yeah: _why_?"

"Flavor mismatch. I'd go with a yellow pepper sauce, myself."

She growled, stepping forward with a snarl.

"_Fi_."

She looked back at Asher, and then at all the guns around her. With another snarl she replaced her sword on her belt and pointed at the armadillo:

"We don't need your 'help'," she whispered. "So just leave us the hell alone!"

Fionnghal raced up to Asher, walking side by side with him for a time.

"You wanna talk about it?" He finally asked.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Well, are you at least okay?"

"No," she snarled.

"Old wounds?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"_New_ ones." She cradled her left paw to her chest. "I may have broken my paw on Tat's damn mouth." She looked over at the cottontail. "Speaking of hard knocks: you could have told me you were gonna bluff the moles like that."

"How so?" Asher asked.

"That whole 'take you all out to keep the Master Emerald in Mobian hands' thing."

"Who said it was a bluff?" Asher narrowed his eyes.

Fionnghal craned her neck in his direction. When the cottontail noticed her staring at him he shrugged his shoulders:

"What? Is my position really that surprising?"

"No," Fionnghal said. "It's just... well, a little _indecent_, isn't it? It just seems like the kind of thing _I'd _be advocating, Ash."

"Maybe you should have advocated it. Maybe you're just losing your balls, Fi," he smirked.

"Or you're growing _tumors_ in yours, Ash."

Further into the passage the caverns of Cake Rim opened up into a great, yawning space. The first thing the struck Fionnghal was the ceiling: there _wasn't _one. Not one that she could see, anyway. A great sacred darkness loomed above them, so much like the calm, moonless night that it stunned her. Her oversized boots ground to a halt as she took the great space in. The floor before them was dotted with strange plants and swaying grasses adorned in delicate rows, so much like the open garden of any old-time town square on the surface that she thought she'd traveled through time. Planted amongst these rows were elegant brass poles, each bearing an orb set into its top, blazing with the comforting light of a yellow sun. All along the walls beyond this the flickering light of braziers winked through carved windows; each chamber beyond the wall was accompanied by a homey wooden door. Far, far out in the distance the black water of a subterranean lake lapped at a black sand shoreline.

Fionnghal first leered at the swaying grasses before her, and then she slowly raised her paws to her face; a soft breeze ruffled the fur around her pads. She took in a deep breath and released it, slowly. It was unlike the air in the upper chambers. It was _fresh_.

"Incredible, isn't it?"

Davidinia approached the rat, beckoning her to follow the party across the square of the subterranean city.

"I had no idea!" Fionnghal whispered.

The mole smiled.

"Nobody really does. That's the point, I suppose."

"You made _all _of this?" Fionnghal gaped.

Davidinia shook her head, acknowledging some passers-by in the well-lit lanes. The moles all bowed to her respectfully, but viewed Fionnghal with obvious unease. She didn't need to see their eyes to pick-up on their wariness.

"Not all of it; the prehistoric lava flows did most of the work for us. On _this _chamber, at least. This place was hard work to cultivate, but it was worth it. It's unique. Maybe you don't think so, but—"

Fionnghal scoffed.

"Well, it wouldn't have been so 'unique' a few decades ago, but this place is like a storybook, Davidinia! It's like one of those old-time Mobian towns, the kind we had before we lost Sulumac'Dun..."

"This world was too violent for most of us even back then. I mean you no offense: Sulumac'Dun may have been heaven to you, Mistress Fionnghal, but bloody conflict still raged on the surface. Down here is where we moles have found _our _heaven. _Ta'ehir_ _De'ruzh— _I'm sorry, Cake Rim— it was an idea long before it was a reality. Amadeo had the strength to unite Tau Tribe and make it, but still, we've been so very limited..."

"Limited?" Fionnghal looked over at the mole.

"Come this way," Davidinia pointed, "and you'll see..."

The party finally made it beyond the clear night skies and well-tended gardens of the city proper. The pathway beyond narrowed, and again the dank scent of a musty cave replaced the fresh thrill of the city's air.

And then there were other smells.

They walked amongst a bank of massive motors, all set into the rockwork with pipes radiating out into the rock walls like roots. The scent of oils and fumes burned Fionnghal's nose. Beyond all this the caverns completely lost their manicured shapes, devolving into crude tunnels buttressed with simple wooden planks.

"The demands on our resources are massive," Davidinia explained. "And that's just to power our city, itself. We expand because we have to, always deeper into the earth. Without expansion we have no room for growth."

"Yeah. I'm guessing it can get crowded down here," Fionnghal said.

Davidinia nodded, smiling gently.

"It's a constant problem," she said. "Back when Père was born we started working on our deeper excavations. It's... it's difficult work, of course. And it's not something that can be set to timetables, you see. Amadeo is brilliant, and we get along fine. Only..."

"What?" Fionnghal asked.

Davidinia put her hand to her stomach, gently caressing her pregnant belly.

"We've been growing so fast, and so well, that we're outpacing our excavations. There've been new rules implemented, you see. Rules about... breeding, and _restrictions _on it..."

Fionnghal's blue eyes widened.

"Oh. But, I mean, since you're the mate of the tribe _leader_—"

Davidinia nodded.

"I know. But it wouldn't be right for the other females. We left the surface-world because we thought that it wasn't a 'decent' place to live anymore. Well, it's not a decent society when the rulers don't live by the rules, is it? We should be _examples _of sacrifice, not exceptions to it."

"Well, I agree with _that_. To a point, anyway. So, then, if your excavators don't pick up the pace… then..."

Davidinia stared down at her clawed feet.

"I'd rather not speak of it. It's... unpleasant."

The rat wagged her head.

"Oh, listen: I'm sorry. I... I don't really spend a bunch of time... you know... _talking_, like this. And not around other _females_, especially. I really didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine," Davidinia said. She looked over at Fionnghal. "You see, that's why it's so important that we thinkabout our future in everything we do. Even when the path isn't easy. Even when it's... when it's very difficult."

"Well, I might not have a juvie of my own, but I _do _know tough decisions. I know something about messing those decisions up, too."

"Yes," Davidinia said. "Most leaders do. But it's something _we_ cannot afford to do. Not now..."

Amadeo led everyone around a corner, and instantly they reached a dead-end.

And it was a very _unnatural _dead-end.

"I think now," Amadeo said, "you can all see the problem with reaching your fragment, yes?"

Asher blinked, tilting his head to one side.

"Is— is that..."

Stretched before them, eclipsing the entire path, a mountain of scarred metal blocked their route.

"You gotta be kidding me," Tatu snarled.

The ship wreckage lay broken and torn, extending god only knows how far into the earth, and how far above it. Beyond a cluster of rent metal skin a small tear in the hull exposed a rusted airlock, sealed tight as a tomb.

Other than that, though, it was a solid wall of impenetrable junk.

Fionnghal crossed her arms and snarled.

"Gotta say: I'm _really_ starting to hate that damned ship," she said.


	14. Travels Without The Sun

"Travels Without the Sun"

I.

One-hundred thousand tons of ruined spaceship blocked the path to the Master Emerald fragment. It was a mountain of layered metals— most of them quite alien to Mobius, and quite a few of them just short of indestructible. The thing had largely survived an uncontrolled reentry onto the planet's surface, after all. And while the contest between Theta Tribe and Delta Tribe for possession of the Master Emerald fragment was 'complicated', to say the least, Amadeo's solution to the problem was remarkably simple:

Whoever figured out how to get past that twisted wreckage first got dibs. It was simple, really.

"Aaaand we're screwed," Brady grumbled.

The sloth stood behind Fionnghal, who lounged at a table overlooking the great manicured gardens at Cake Rim's center. Across from their table the vast subterranean lake lapped at the dark shore, its black water mysterious and cold against the moles' artificial lighting.

Fionnghal scoffed:

"I'd prefer a more 'detailed' analysis of our tactical situation, Brapes..."

The sloth shrugged:

"Right: we're _officially _screwed."

"Thank you," the rat sighed.

Katchy bided his time skipping stones across the black water. He was pretty good, too; most times he managed at least eight skips before his stones sunk into the murky deep, or disappeared from the bank of lights on the shore, journeying into the alien blackness beyond. Sonic paced behind him, arms crossed and with a cold scowl on his face. The look he was going for was 'determined' but Fionnghal saw through that façade in short order; she thought that what the hedgehog was feeling right now was 'boredom', and a severe case, at that.

Eventually Sonic was good enough to confirm this hypothesis: during one of Katchy's stone skips Sonic picked up his own stone, slung it up into the air, and then whipped his body about. Lights flared from his QEDs— a nova of color in the muted cavern— and his metal leg brace connected with the stone. Instantly the thing went blazing across the water like a rocket, dropping fiery sparks into the water with every skip.

As for how many skips? The thing was out of sight, vanished into the infinite darkness, long before they could be counted.

Katchy glared at the hedgehog. Sonic merely smirked at the raccoon dog and walked back up the shoreline.

Fionnghal lay back in her chair, one arm resting over her eyes:

"We can't hope to compete with the Delts' engineering resources," she said.

"Fair assessment," Brady nodded. "Even if we had the engineering talent, we don't have the resources—"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"No, we've got more than enough talent," she muttered. "_That _isn't the problem."

Brady squinted.

"Uh... how do you figure, exactly?"

Fionnghal didn't answer him. Instead she indulged that phantom feeling in her spine— a certain cold shiver training over the nape of her neck, singing her fur, bringing a bristly fluff to her coat. Fionnghal shivered, and then finally turned her body around in the chair.

Far behind her a shadowy figure lurked in the shadows of a rock-face building. It was a wolf, and a very tall one. Its black cloak billowed in the soft breeze of the city, ruffling like tendrils off its dark body. It watched, hollow eyes cold, like the Grim Reaper itself stalking them.

"Looks like somebody's keeping tabs on us," Brady muttered. The sloth picked a bottle of water off their table and wiggled it at the wolf. "Care for a drink, li'l doggie?"

The wolf slowly stepped back into the darkness behind the building, with a glint of silver beaming off its mask before it vanished. Brady clucked his tongue.

"Canines," he scoffed. "They've got the manners of a dog..."

Fionnghal looked beyond that stone building, her eyes scanning the Cake Rim town square and its impossible gardens. Her crew had the patio beside the water to themselves, as all the moles seemed quite happy to keep their distance from them. As for the moles they carried on like any citizens of a peaceful city might; juveniles played with each other outside stone doorways, tradesmen peddled their goods from bright-lit stalls encircling the square. It was so natural that the _unnatural_ state of it all didn't bother her in the least. Heck, she almost thought she could see the sun itself down here. And everywhere there was this calm, gentle feeling emanating from the rockwork all around them.

'Peacefulness'. That was what it was.

Fionnghal thought she had forgotten the word. But to see such a tranquil scene as this, in a world as fractured as it was, was remarkable. But to seeit did not make her _feel _it; she felt only an emptiness in her chest as she watched this lovely little city go about its life. For every conical face that looked over at her, suspicious, and every furry body that moved near her table, only to veer far away at the last minute, like cagey prey pulling away from a skulking predator, Fionnghal knew that this was a world in which none of them belonged. Maybe she thought that she could see the sun, down here, but it wasn't any kind of sunlight she could be a part of.

She and hers were not 'peaceful' creatures.

"Shame what they have to go through," she said. "Living down here, I mean. Makes you wonder what _we're _doing upstairs, doesn't it? Here we are trying to save this world— or at least do our best to keep it from falling apart— and really we only _think _we're living in the sunlight. But right under our feet there are these creatures who found a way to give up on this world, entirely. It's their own little slice of heaven, the world around them notwithstanding."

Brady smiled.

"Might be fine living for a mole, maybe, but living without _real_ sunlight ain't really living, is it?"

Fionnghal toyed with the hilt of _Curtainrod_.

"I don't know. Maybe real sunlight is overrated," she mused.

Asher and Katchy soon returned from the deeper caverns with Tails in tow; the little kit was holding all ten of his fingers in front of his face, brow furrowed with effort and twitching his digits rapidly, as if working out a set of complex differential equations by hand.

Fionnghal assumed that he was, actually.

"What's our status, here?" Asher asked.

"Not too good," Brady said. "The moles are a little uneasy with us being out here, the Banshee's getting bored, and— worst of all—Mistress Fionnghal's getting existential on us."

Asher smirked.

"Just toss her in the lake if those gears in her head overheat," the cottontail said.

Fionnghal looked up at the pair, scowling.

"Lovely that we can all make jokes while the Delts take possession of that emerald fragment. And I bet it'll be _hilarious _when Eggman completes his set and—"

"Don't sell us short just yet," Asher said. "We may have one up on the Delts."

Fionnghal squinted.

"Are you saying the wolves _can't_ tunnel past that wreckage?"

"Of course they can; their civil engineering specialist— uh, 'The Denning'— did an appraisal and gave the moles an estimate. Apparently the metals in the hull can't be cut without a super-powerful laser, which would have the slightly detrimental side-effect of heating all the tunnels down here to about 500 degrees, or so. With that in mind, for plan B, he figures that with Delta Tribe's special shape charges, reinforced metal braces on the tunnels, and a _lot_ of math they can blow past all that wreckage in two weeks, flat. That beats the moles' estimated breakthrough date by a few months. It's nice to have nearly unlimited resources…"

"I bet it is," Fionnghal growled. "So can we do better than two weeks?"

Asher laughed.

"We'd have to bring the whole tribe down here, and start digging with _spoons_. Miles' juveniles would _have _juveniles would have by the time we made it through—"

"Then why are you being such a smug twit right now?"

Asher crossed his arms, the smile on his face widening; clearly he enjoyed toying with the rat's expectations.

"Because I don't plan to _dig _at all," he said. "I plan on using a _key_."

Fionnghal cocked her head.

"'Key'?"

Asher looked down at Tails, who still appeared mystified by his own fingers. The cottontail grunted, and when that didn't work he prodded the kit with one boot. Tails started, looking up with an annoyed squint, but then went back to his phantom calculations, speaking as he worked.

"Um... latent power source set above hatchway is intact— operable with external power supply— and input for adjacent sensor is double-stranded, helical genetic sequence that lacks an Interspecies-Cooperative Coding Region. Genetic material is..."

The kit's fingers wagged even more quickly; he scrunched his face, and then suddenly dropped his paws to either side, nodding violently.

"...is consistent with human nucleic acid sequences, tied into a database of matching sequences. Database size is consistent with probable carrying capacity of the _Rainbow Runner_."

"Long story short," Asher said, "Miles managed to find a sensor on that door we saw, and that sensor _controls _the door. It was part of a larger automated system. There's a device that looks like it was supposed to interact with the humans boarding the ship, extract a drop of blood, and then automatically open every bulkhead down the line to their designated cryo-tube on the ship. Security measure I guess; they must have not wanted anyone getting aboard that _shouldn't _be aboard."

Fionnghal stared down at her boots.

"So we're talking DNAcoding," she whispered.

Asher nodded. "Yup. With an iris-scan backup system built in, to boot. So you draw the blood, scan the eyes, open the door."

"That system can't _possibly_ still be intact, though?"

"Those doorways are the heartiest parts of the ship, Fi; the sensors were sealed up tight in the bulkheads when the ship crashed, and from what we can tell they're all still wired to receive signals. And that's not all," Asher said. "Care to guess which sectionof the _Rainbow Runner _we're dealing with, here? From what Miles can tell this is a piece of what the humans called the 'S-Section'. Do you happen to remember that letter/number sequence we translated off the lapel of our human juvie's jumpsuit?"

Fionnghal tilted her head to one side:

"S—5618," she remembered.

Sonic stood close behind Asher. He narrowed his eyes:

"So the kid was stowed in _that _section of the ship," he said.

"It must've broken in half on reentry," Fionnghal mused. "Quinn's half ended up right on our doorstep, and the other..."

"...suffered a molar impaction."

Everyone, with the exception of Tails, slowly looked over at Brady. The sloth scratched the back of his head, smiling sheepishly.

"I've been waiting quite a while to make that joke," he muttered.

"Bottom line," Sonic growled, "is that the door is locked, and the little human is a key?"

"That's the skinny of it," Asher said. "We get Quinn down here, we open the lock. And then we get the fragment."

"Assuming the Delts let us just walk right out of here with it," Katchy muttered.

"One problem at a time," Fionnghal stood up. "We've got to get Quinn down here, _now_."

"Get a line to the Thallomoor," Asher said, "and send word to have that chaffinch bring him in."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Fringe won't take the job," she said. "She was freaked out when she learned that Quinn's a human, and she doesn't want to touch him with a ten-foot pole."

"_Order _her," Sonic grumbled.

"She's kinda 'freelance'," Fionnghal looked to one side. "She doesn't follow orders, she follows _favors_. And for this sort of thing there's no favor likely to sway her; humans terrify her. Preening little sissy..."

"Humans terrify _me_, too," Asher growled, "but I'd hope that even a chaffinch could see the bigger picture." The cottontail shook his head. "Alright, what is it: a six-hour drive to the Thallomoor?"

"Five if my sister is driving," Katchy grumbled. "No guarantees you'd get there in one piece..."

"We'll need to stall Amadeo and the wolves until we can get the little human down here. Let's ask them to continue the estimates tomorrow—"

Sonic scoffed.

"Just have her fly in a vial of his blood..."

Fionnghal looked over at the hedgehog; Sonic smiled devilishly:

"...and one of his eyes. That'll do, right? We really only need _one_, don't we? Waste not, want not..."

Fionnghal crossed her arms, her face cold.

"Forget it," Sonic grumbled. "Just give Amadeo _your _estimate: tell him that we'll be ready to open the ship up in about 45 minutes, alright?"

The hedgehog moved for the surface.

Asher called after him:

"Where're _you_ going?"

"Thallomoor, of course," Sonic answered. "And I'll be back with some fresh boy blood and a fresh boy eye..."

The hedgehog looked back at Fionnghal, smirking:

"...and yes, both of them will still be _in _said boy. Seriously, who do you think I am, anyway?"

Fionnghal nodded at him, watching him leave.

"Honestly, it's as if you think I'm _you_," the hedgehog muttered.

The rat looked down at the cavern floor, a snarl forming at the corner of her drawn lips. But when she returned her gaze to level her eyes were far more somber. She noticed Brady and Katchy staring at her and quickly returned to her senses.

"You heard the hedgehog," she barked. "Go get word to the moles, _now_!"

II.

Some time later Asher found Fionnghal at the entrance to Cake Rim. The rat leaned against the discolored rock wall, staring at the sun-blasted sand beyond the overhang. The air was not quiet. A piercing hum dominated the limestone canyon; far above them the _Egg Viper _hovered, with its 'tail' swishing lazily in the air.

Fionnghal acknowledged Asher with a nod. She motioned to the flying machine.

"Think he's watching us?" She asked.

"Almost certainly," Asher replied.

The pair stared up at the menacing leviathan. After a moment Fionnghal made a very rude gesture at the craft.

"You shouldn't do that," Asher grumbled.

"Afraid of a metal snake?" She asked.

"Snakes don't scare me," Asher said. "It's _humans _that terrify me..."

Fionnghal nodded. After a long pause she smirked:

"Y'know, not to brag, but I havechallenged that ship. And on _foot_."

"Admittedly, you had a little help, didn't you?" Asher grew wary of being in the _Viper's _line of sight, and so he ducked down against a rocky crag. He was sure to do it with all the 'nonchalance' and grace required to make it look more like a natural move, and less like cowardly slinking.

"You know," he said, "you really shouldn't let him do that, Fi..."

"Let _who _do _what_?"

"You know who. Yes, he's an ass, and he doesn't play nice with others, generally, but he's picking on _you _every chance he gets, isn't he? You might try smacking him around a little bit—"

"Sonic can do whatever he wants," Fionnghal crossed her arms. "And I'll do whatever I _must_."

"Including letting yourself be thoroughly debased, huh?"

Fionnghal stared forward. She did not answer the cottontail.

"I feel kinda left out," Asher said. "You won't let _me _talk down to you like that—"

"_Sonic _can do whatever he wants," Fionnghal repeated.

Asher scoffed, shrugging.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I remember back in the palace, as a juvie, the way Haliled would tease me. She could be insufferable, you know..."

"Does this nostalgia have a point, Ash?"

Asher looked over at the rat.

"Yeah, it does. I mean to say that you're a good—"

Thunder rumbled across the rocky land beyond the canyon, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. A whirlwind of dust billowed all along the canyon mouth, and it closed in on them in short order. Sonic ground to a halt about ten feet in front of them. Around his slender shoulders a pair of white arms embraced him, with small hands gripping his collarbones tight. The hedgehog crossed his arms, looking over his shoulder with a satisfied smile.

Quinn, piggybacked on the hedgehog, dismounted slowly. It was less a coordinated drop than it was an awkward 'ooze' of swaying arms and rubbery legs. The boy reached the ground eventually, even as Sonic patiently stood in place, waiting for him to disembark. The boy stared at the sand for a moment, eyes wide as dinner plates, and then he finally noticed Asher and Fionnghal; he gaped at them with vacant abandon.

Fionnghal tilted her head.

"Uh, you alright, Quinn?"

The boy took a few seconds to answer; eventually he threw his fists straight up into the air, leaping off his feet, face tilted skyward with a salivating grin:

"_WOOOOOO-__**HOOOOO**_! _Yeaaaaaah_!"

Fionnghal looked over at Sonic, who was inspecting his fingernails and unsuccessfully attempting to hide a very self-satisfied smirk.

"You said '45 minutes' an hour ago. Not like you to be late..."

The hedgehog shrugged.

"Well, we may have taken the 'scenic route'."

Quinn continued jumping up and down while pumping his fists, crowing all the while. Sonic chuckled:

"Geez, kid acts like he's never leapt off an overturned log, soared through a waterfall, then run up the side of a cliff face in order to clear a briar patch before. Simple stuff, really."

"Had some fun, did we?" Fionnghal smiled.

Sonic looked up at her:

"Well, not _me_, of course. I don't get off on that kind of stuff, anymore. It's strictly old hat to me..."

"You had fun showing it _off_, though," she said. "Why else take the scenic route?"

Sonic scratched the back of his head; for some reason he now had trouble keeping eye contact with the rat:

"Well... you know: make sure we weren't followed. _Naturally_..."

Quinn was still in hysterics:

"Oh! Oh, _man_! I'm _so _doing that again! Hey: how about on the trip back—"

Sonic walked past the boy, shaking his head and rubbing one of his shoulders, wincing:

"You're riding in the _jeep_ on the way back, kid. For one thing, you're a lot heavier than you look. And for another, I'm no taxi service. This was simple necessity; don't get used to it."

Still, Asher noticed a small grin on the hedgehog's face as he approached the cottontail. Sonic banished it as best he could before speaking:

"Are the moles ready for a show?" The hedgehog asked.

"They're skeptical," Asher said. "Understandable, I suppose."

"When they see Quinn they'll probably change their tune," Fionnghal smirked.

Quinn, in an attempt to join the group, promptly walked straight into the limestone wall on his rubber legs; he grunted, crashing to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes.

"Augh! I'm okay," he muttered. "Just a few, uh, balance problems."

Sonic's grin spread once again.

"I'm thinking they might _not_," he said.

III.

The Delts were on them as soon as the party returned to the blocked tunnel; The Brass wasted no time mocking Asher's position.

"Prince Shope," he said, "I assume you at least have some _theatrics_ to entertain us with in these last few minutes of your allotted time?"

Tatu stood far apart from the wolf, leaning casually against the twisted mountain of metal. He shook his massive head, sighing:

"They've _got _something on us, you idiot doggie," he grumbled. "I keep _telling _you..."

The Brass snapped his gloved fingers at Tatu, not bothering to look back at the armadillo. Instead he looked to Amadeo:

"Can we assume that, once Theta Tribe fails to remove the _Runner _wreckage in their allotted time they will be...'removed', themselves?"

Asher crossed his arms, nodding:

"Oh, I have no objections. _But_, Amadeo, if we manage to get past that wreckage in the next few minutes then you give Delta Tribe the boot. Fair enough?"

Amadeo scratched his whiskery head, shrugging uncertainly. He looked at The Brass, who tilted his head in acquiescence.

"_Oh_," Tatu rested his palm against his forehead, hissing like a snake: "They... friggin'... _have_... something!"

Amadeo again faced Asher:

"Agreed. And fair enough, but by your own estimate you _do _only have minutes to spare, sir..."

Asher smiled.

"Oh. Then I'd better bring in my wrecking ball..."

He snapped his fingers, and on cue Quinn emerged from the shadows of the tunnel, flanked by Sonic and Fionnghal. The boy's appearance caused quite a stir: the wolves muttered amongst themselves, while the moles all exchanged curious glances.

Hardwigg shuffled up to the boy, getting down on one knee to see him better. His whiskers wiggled about as he examined the boy from head to toe.

"What... are you?" He asked.

Quinn crossed his arms, smirking mischievously.

"Mole rat," he said.

Hardwigg tilted his head, skeptical. Behind him Amadeo chimed in:

"I do not think so," he said.

"Well, _naked _mole rat," Quinn clarified.

Amadeo leaned forward, getting a better look at Quinn with his beady little eyes.

"This... is a _human_," he said.

Fionnghal nodded.

"That's right. This juvenile was originally a passenger on the _Rainbow Runner_." She explained the scanning systems in the hull that the wolves overlooked in their zeal to blow the wreckage to pieces.

Instantly The Brass turned to converse with his subordinates. Tatu walked off a ways, chuckling bitterly.

"Who could have _possibly _thought they'd _actually _have something?" He laughed.

"You mean," Hardwigg said, "that this little human can get the wreckage itself _open_, and all we need to do is scan her eyes and her blood?"

Quinn bared his teeth, brow furrowed:

"_Hey_!" He barked. "I'm a _guy_!"

Hardwigg looked up at Asher and Fionnghal, who both nodded. When he looked back down at Quinn he blinked.

"Really?"

"_Really_!" Quinn growled.

"Ah, I'm sorry, but..."

Tails wandered past the group, approaching the wreckage's doorway.

"Phenotypically confusing," the kit said. "Primary hypothesis: lack of distinct secondary sex characteristics may be the norm in human juveniles. Their sexual dimorphism—"

Quinn glared at the little fox:

"Our Di-Morbidism is just fine!"

The kit's ears pricked up; Tails looked back at the boy, black eyes innocent.

"Oh," he replied. "Alternate hypothesis: The _Qui'ntroshe_ is atypically feminine-looking, for a male."

Quinn's throat seemed to implode on itself for a second. He looked back at Hardwigg, fumbling for words. Fionnghal gave a helpful suggestion:

"'Di-Morbidism'?" She whispered.

Quinn nodded sheepishly.

"Yeah," he muttered: "That's probably it..."

By now the wolves were in a full panic; The Brass suddenly approached Amadeo, fumbling over his words, but making enough sense to be understood:

"Th— the juvenile is... you see, _we _have a claim to him as well!"

The Brass got within ten feet of Quinn and Amadeo before Fionnghal whipped out _Curtainrod_; every gun in the cavern then came out, aimed in every which way.

"You know: this seems to happen a lot," Asher grumbled.

Sonic strutted down the line of drawn guns, shaking his head. He looked at Amadeo:

"I suggest that you ask the _juvie_ who he's gonna open the ship for. Fair enough way to settle things."

Amadeo looked down at Quinn.

"Well?" He said.

Quinn returned his gaze with steel eyes:

"I'm opening that ship up for _myself_," he said. "But as far as this emerald thingy is concerned, I'm doing all that for ThetaTribe."

The wolves attempted further protests, but Amadeo put a stop to their howling:

"It remains to be seen whether this young human can even _open _the way for us," he said. "First and foremost, let us see where this course of action may take us."

Tails, standing by the airlock, hurled a small wrench up against the wreckage's side; it struck a distended piece of the frame, causing it to pop open like a glove box. The kit smiled, quite satisfied with his accuracy.

Quinn stepped forward slowly. He gazed at the twisted metal of the _Runner_, looming over him like a mangled golem in the darkness. He hesitated, looking back over his shoulder at Fionnghal. The rat nodded to him encouragingly. With a sigh the boy approached the hatchway and stood beside Tails. The little kit, meanwhile, stared up at that hole in the ship with narrowed eyes.

"Now..." Tails mused. "Manual startup? Or maybe—"

A clicking noise exploded from the vessel, reverberating up through the cavern floor and through Quinn's legs; the boy leapt back in shock as a massive floodlight flared from the hole, bathing his face in harsh white light.

"Oh, _automated_!" Tails sunnily declared.

Quinn slowly moved forward, heart still hammering away like a piston. He got within a few feet of the little hole when a surge of bright red light washed over his face; for an instant a complex pattern of colorful laser beams hammered his face, and then they were gone.

More clicks and more groans from the dead metal mound.

Suddenly a robotic arm burst from the hole, swivling about unsteadily on damaged joints. Tails had to duck to keep it from banging into his head, and Quinn didn't even have time to move before its tip pressed against the boy's chest, just north of his heart, and then—

_Thunk_!

The boy stumbled backward, gasping. He fell to his knees, coughing, and then—

_—Yellow fire danced from the ship's engines, spouting a sweet exhaust tail._ _He could pick up the smell even from—_

_ —the gaping door. Lights strike his face. That metal arm slinks out of the ship's skin, rearing about like a serpent, moving toward him..._

_ He stepped back once, twice._

Bump.

_One hand on his shoulder— warm, comforting— and another at his cheek; something bright, sparkly and green. Something clutched tight in a fist... offered—_

_ "Quinn—"_

There was no one to catch Quinn when he fell back this time, and he landed flat on his back on the cold cavern floor. For a moment— _just _a moment— he thought he could see a sky overhead. He thought he could hear the birds... thought he could see the sun, even...

"S— s— s— sub... ject..."

The boy's eyes shot open. His brain smoldered, as if spinning on unoiled gears. He sat upright, lips quivering, and he looked up at the wreckage.

"Wh— what?" He asked.

A stunted voice slowly churned out a garbled string of words:

"S— sub... ject: S Section, compartment number 56, berth n— n—umber 18... Male... Age: one-hundred and fffffffffff— error... m—months. Me—meeeee— medical advisory: allllllergy… _Arachis hypogaea_. B—b—b—blood type: A+... Per—er—ersonal infor..."

Quinn got to his feet. His head felt like it was ready to split at the seams, hearing his own language for the first time since he was thawed out.

"Personal... information?" He stuttered. "Information? And _personal_?"

The stilted voice slowed, its pitch dipping quite low:

"Sub...ject n—n—na...aaaaaaaame... Quuuu... uuuu... Quuuu..."

The boy's teeth ground together. He stepped forward.

"Quinn," he whispered. "Yes? That's _right_, isn't it?"

"Quuuu…uuuu…"

His breaths became short, even as his heart pounded in his chest. The boy shook his head, striking the surface of the mangled compartment.

"Come— c'mon!" He bawled. "_Quinn_, right? And what else? _What else_? T— talk to me! Please! Talk to me! What else? What else? _Who am I_? Come on! _Who am I_?"

The boy thrashed his fists against the side of the console, ignoring the fact that his bare hands were digging right into a bed of twisted, rusty metal. He didn't feel the pain any more than he felt the blood drops splashing his face.

"_Who am I_?" The boy shriek, fists pounding. "Huh? _WHO... AM... I?_"

One hand on his shoulder—

Quinn spun about, eyes bugged and wild.

The giant rat loomed over him, staring down with beady eyes and buck teeth. Its massive ears, alien and hideous, wiggled like palm fronds, and its leathery paws held his hands tight, with pointed digits digging into his flesh. The thing squeaked out some horrid string of gibberish; the noise stung him, burning even his nostrils with its awful tenor.

"Guh... ugh..."

Finally the boy's blood pressure sank like a stone; he felt himself land on his knees, but it was a dreamy experience, as if he were watching it happen outside of his own body. Spots in his eyes turned to blackness, and it was a moment before he came back to his senses.

When he did he found his face buried in a mound of brown fur, chin propped up against the collar of Fionnghal's combat vest. He looked up, slowly, and met the rat's gaze.

Fionnghal spoke to him again, gently. Quinn felt the words grate across his brain. He forced the disjointed sounds into a place he knew: a pattern where they made sense. When Fionnghal repeated herself he could finally understand her:

"You okay, Quinn?"

"I almost thought I could see the sun," he whispered.

"What?"

The boy shook his head.

"I'm fine. I'm just...just a little shook up, that's all."

The boy looked around the chamber; the raccoon dog twins both stared at him with terrified eyes and brindled fur. Mister Asher merely looked at the boy with a crooked scowl, blinking incredulously. All the moles bore similar expressions, and while the wolves' faces remained indecipherable behind their elegant metal masks their body posture clearly expressed unease.

Quinn again looked up at Fionnghal, frowning:

"Uh...did the human just freak everybody out, or something?"

Fionnghal smirked.

"No," she said. "They're just wondering what I'm gonna do to you, getting these bloodstains on my vest, and all."

Quinn looked down at his hands, which gripped the rat's vest tight; the outside of his palms bled freely, and much of it leaked onto the rat's clothes.

"Oh! I'm really sorry! And... _ouch_!" He rubbed his wounded hands together.

Fionnghal stood up, shaking her head:

"Forget about it." She snapped her fingers, looking down at the little kit beside Quinn:

"Tails: bandages for 'The _Qui'ntroshe_', if you please."

Tails sat Quinn down and went to work on his injured palms. Quinn watched the little fox as he worked.

"What about the _Runner _door?" Quinn asked. "Why didn't it open for me?"

Tails looked up at the boy, his fuzzy face more quizzical than usual:

"Why didn't it _not_, do you mean?"

Quinn stared at Tails blankly, but then he looked past the kit; the ruined hatchway on the _Rainbow Runner _lay open, exposing the dark innards of the wreckage. The boy wagged his head:

"Where the heck did I just _go_?" He muttered.

"Nowhere," Tails shrugged. "Physically, at least..."

Fionnghal stood beside one of Hardwigg's troops, staring down into the black recesses of the ship. The mole sniffed loudly, and then sighed with content.

"Open air," he grumbled. "_Deep _air."

The mole broke a chemical glow stick and tossed it through the wreckage; it bounced across the twisted floor several times, coming to rest far down the line. The harsh green light exposed a carved path extending beyond the wreck.

The mole looked back at Hardwigg:

"It's open," he said. "All the way through."

Hardwigg nodded; he looked back at Amadeo, shrugging.

Amadeo clapped his furry paws together, raising his conical head dramatically.

"Ah! And so it is that Theta Tribe emerges victorious! And I must say this defies _all _expectations!"

The Brass stepped forward, breathing heartily into his golden mask:

"_Amadeo_! This is outrageous! Their use of that little human to open the craft is—"

"Clever?" The mole asked. "_Ingenious_? I could hardly put it better myself, sir."

"And now," Asher stepped forward, "about that deal we had? The one where Delta Tribe gets kicked to the curb? I think we'll cash that in, now."

The Brass snorted through the nostrils of its mask:

"_Outrageous_!"

"Apologies, my dear Brass, but a deal _is _a deal." Amadeo directed Hardwigg to his side. "Now, then, noble Hardwigg: if you and your troops would please see to our worthy Delta Tribe members' needs— perhaps some brief food and refreshment in the city proper— before ensuring their safe voyage to the surface?"

Hardwigg's face bristled.

"Uh, of course, sir, but I thought that the expedition would get underway _now_—"

"Ah! And it will, indeed!" Amadeo clapped his paws together rapidly, and within seconds a small contingent of moles tromped their way down into the tunnel, marching on heavy combat boots. Each of them bore automatic weapons and dyed purple sashes along one shoulder of their suits. Hardwigg looked at these newcomers skeptically.

"Uh... your personal guard, sir?"

"Indeed, Hardwigg. Appropriate enough, no? Certainly _they _should accompany me on our little venture."

"What? _You _want to—"

Hardwigg paused; he looked around at the members of Theta and Delta tribe uneasily, and then leaned in closer to his leader:

"Sir, as Speedster I have to recommend against you going down there—"

"Nonsense," Amadeo waved Hardwigg off. "Who better to oversee the removal of that damnable piece of rubbish than myself?"

Davidina brought up the rear of the platoon, following behind Amadeo's personal guard. She went to her mate's side.

"Ah! Are you ready, my dear?"

She nodded.

Fionnghal appeared quite surprised to see the female mole in their group.

"You're, uh, coming along, too, Davidinia?"

The female mole nodded.

"Why?" The rat asked.

"Leading by example," Davidinia replied softly. "Don't you remember?"

Fionnghal's brow cocked to a wholly unnatural degree, but she nodded her understanding, and quite unconvincingly, too.

Quinn soon went to fretting over the sensor wired to the _Runner's _door, but neither Tails nor the mole engineers on hand could seem to get it working again.

"All the juice it used to open that door must've bled the thing dry," one mole declared.

Quinn walked away from the crew, sulking.

"Convenient," he muttered.

Asher instructed Tails to get out his emerald-detecting equipment, and the little kit obliged, but as he sat in the dirt, laptop propped on his knees, Tails shook his head.

"Interference," he muttered. "No signal..."

Asher scowled at him:

"Miles, you _said _you could track it down here—"

"Latent energy from Quantum Effects Discriminators is comingling with the fragment signal," Tails said.

Katchy tilted his head:

"You mean that QEDs are throwing the thing off down here?"

The kit looked back at Sonic, motioning to his glowing leg braces. "Recommendation? Remove your braces, and have them sent out of the tunnel."

Brady chuckled:

"I'd actually like to see that," he said.

Sonic motioned to his whole body:

"What if I just removed _myself_? I'll wait further back in the tunnel."

Tails blinked, as if astonished by this radical suggestion.

"Oh! Sure. That works, too..."

Sonic smiled gently at the little kit, winking, and then moved up out of the narrow tunnel.

The raccoon dog siblings exchanged glances with each other; Catchie eventually walked up to Asher. Quinn could barely hear her whispering:

"Sir, it might be a good idea for my brother and me to do a little sweep in the city before we go down into the deeper tunnels. You know, keep an eye out for any Delts that may be 'straggling' about up there?"

Asher looked at her with a crooked scowl. Katchy buttressed his sister's argument:

"Unless, of course, you _trust _these moles to keep all the Delts on a leash, sir?"

The cottontail clucked his tongue, and then he nodded grudgingly:

"Fine. You've got ten minutes," he said, "and then we go in."

The siblings made what Quinn would call a 'hasty retreat' for the tunnel exit. Meanwhile Tails fiddled with his sensors, face furrowed in concentration and lower lip in his pointy teeth. After a few more seconds the kit finally looked up:

"Oh, there it is."

"Where, exactly?" Asher asked.

"Two kilometers," Tails said, pointing straight through the wreckage.

"And the path is _clear _the full way?" Fionnghal asked.

Tails played with a few keys:

"Sonar says..."

The kit's computer clicked and whirled; at one point the entire casing rumbled, and then grew still again.

"Uh... there are _four _paths, looks like."

"And they're _clear_?" Fionnghal repeated.

Tails looked up at the adults, shrugging:

"Well, at least _one_ of them is."

Asher and Fionnghal exchanged glances, both frowning.

Brady put a paw to his forehead:

"Oh, no," he muttered. "Here it comes..."

"Alright," Asher said. "Looks like we're splitting up."

"Yeah, makes it easier for the monsters to pick us all off..."

Amadeo huddled up with Asher and Fionnghal to set all the groups: at Davidinia's request she was paired with Fionnghal and Tails, Asher was to go with Brady, and Amadeo would proceed with his own personal guard.

"Right," Fionnghal said. "That just leaves Sonic—"

"—and The _Qui'ntroshe_," Sonic sauntered back into the tunnel, interrupting the rat.

Quinn had been facing a wall, arms crossed, desperately trying to hide the recalcitrant tears brimming at the edges of his red eyes. At Sonic's words, however, the boy quickly looked back over his shoulder in surprise.

"Huh?" He said.

"You heard me, little human. You're gonna be on _my _team. That a problem, or something?"

Quinn shook his head, attempting to discreetly wipe his eyes.

"Uh, no! No, that's alright. Sure!" The boy quickly raced over to the hedgehog's side.

Fionnghal scowled.

"Sonic, maybe Quinn has been through _enough_ today—"

"No, it's fine, Fionnghal," Quinn said. "I wanna go."

Fionnghal stood silent for a moment, eyeing the boy, and then turned her gaze to the hedgehog:

"Just be sure he comes back _out_, Sonic..."

The hedgehog smirked.

"Of course. Anyway, I might need him to open some more doors for me along the way."

Hardwigg stepped forward.

"And I presume you'll need a third in your group, Sonic hedgehog?"

Amadeo was prepared to rebut his Speedster's words, but Hardwigg held up a paw:

"Sir, if you say that _I _am not going down there, then _you _are not going down there, either. That is a security matter, which is my prerogative. Fair enough?"

Amadeo sighed, waving a paw dismissively.

"By all means, noble Hardwigg," he sighed.

Davidinia stood before the gaping maw of the _Runner's _wreckage. She seemed to be ignoring all the world around her, as if entranced, or troubled. Quinn wasn't the only one to notice this; Fionnghal walked to the mole's side.

"Everything alright, Davidinia?" She asked. "You ready?"

The mole quickly snapped out of it, looking at Fionnghal with an equivocal expression.

"Oh, of course. Just... thinking about our future," she whispered. When she again met Fionnghal's eyes the mole's posture was more confident. "It's time for us to deal with this fragment," she said.

"I couldn't agree more," Fionnghal answered.

Quinn didn't know mole expressions— he could barely even make out their faces within the pointed forest of fur that was their heads— but if he had to pick an expression on Davidinia's face as she again stared into the black void before them, it would've been 'sorrow'.

But just what did a kid like himknow, anyway?

IV.

The Brass watched, arms crossed, nostrils flaring, as the parties made their way through the _Rainbow Runner's _wreckage. Behind him all the other wolves also scowled at the proceeding, no doubt with furrowed eyes and bared teeth.

Hardwigg's soldiers stood behind these wolves; as the parties disappeared into the blackness of the deep tunnels one of the mole troops approached The Brass.

"Alright, doggie," he said. "Time to get a move on. And I don't care what anybody said, either: you puppies _won't _be staying with us for lunch, either."

The Brass slowly turned its golden head to face this mole.

"Remarkable, how calmly you can speak," he said.

"What do you mean by that?" The mole growled.

"Oh, it's nothing, really," The Brass adjusted one of his golden greaves. "It's just that your voice is so relaxed for one whose _feet slip_—"

At these words the wolves behind The Brass threw down a few pebble-sized objects behind them; the cavern then erupted with bright light and noises, and when the lights cleared every wolf was upon a mole, forcing them to the ground, choking their necks with precise squeezes of their arms, quickly subduing all of them into unconsciousness.

One mole broke free of its attacker and raced for the city proper. It was spotted by a rather tall wolf who had already incapacitates its target; this wolf produced a glistening dagger from its cloak, pulled back its arm to throw, and then—

A golden glove caught the tall wolf's wrist before it could complete the throw; The Brass shook its head at the wolf, instead pulling out a curious-looking handgun with an oversized barrel and odd magazine. The Brass shot the retreating mole clean in the buttocks, and after a few more steps the mole collapsed onto its side, still struggling to sprint even as he lay on his side the dirt. He looked very much like a fainting goat.

"Disaster _nears _them," The Brass explained to the tall wolf, "but their doom does not yet rush upon them."

The tall wolf pulled its wrist out of The Brass's grip, nodding sullenly.

Tatu, who had casually stood by and watched this violent takedown, chuckled at the wolves derisively:

"My, oh my! I can't believe how _honorably _you sucker-punched all these rubes. Clearly me and my Regulars should take a page from your oh-so-special code..."

The Brass snarled:

"It is permitted under the code," he answered. "They interfere with our lawful action, Tatu. Thus, their 'feet slip'..."

The wolves then stood in formation behind The Bass as he approached the black maw of the _Runner _wreckage, each of them bearing one of the incapacitated mole troop's weapons in their hands.

One of the silver-faced wolves— The Hunting— looked to its leader:

"Engagement orders?" He hissed.

"What rests in there is Eggman's," The Brass explained, "and whoever opposes us stands opposed to his lawful possession rights. This action is to be no wanton bloodbath, but I do provide _one _grant of force to you all..."

The Brass surveyed a long-barreled shotgun handed to him by one of his subordinates; he chambered the weapon, sending a terrible noise reverberating through the dark tunnels.

"Kill all that resist us," he snarled.


	15. Polar Night

"Polar Night"

I.

Hardwigg took the lead, and behind him both Quinn and Sonic walked in near lock-step. Catchie brought up the rear of their little group— 'Team Banshee One', as Quinn enthusiastically coined it. They were twenty minutes into the black caverns and already the raccoon dog's nerves were frayed; this wasn't exactly her element— not by a long shot, really— and everything from the empty, musty scent of the caverns, with its unwholesome, preternatural darkness, right down to the omnipresent chill in the stillborn air rankled her to her core. At times the winding passageway narrowed, only to open up again in due course, but each time it felt as if the jagged black rockwork was closing in on them, as if the bowels of Mobius itself were ready to swallow them whole.

And, just in general, the poor raccoon dog didn't do so well in tight spaces...

Catchie actually found solace in the little juvenile, of all things; Quinn walked forward with confident steps, head held high in the gloom. It certainly helped that he was walking alongside the Thallomoor Banshee, himself. The juvenile matched Sonic step-for-step. With that kind of 'protection' at one's side any juvie might well feel invincible, but Catchie also had to admire Quinn's resilience. At Quinn's insistence both she and her brother had the unenviable task of inspecting the nooks and crannies of the _Runner _wreckage before everyone headed out the other side and down into the tunnels. The look on the poor boy's face when she and her brother reported back to Asher and Fionnghal was heartbreaking. And just what _did_ they report?

"Don't let him go down in there..."

It was enough said.

Really, it was.

Anyway, at the end of the day, if a juvenile goes through all of that and they can still hold their head up high, who was Catchie to be unnerved by a little claustrophobia?

A little while later she had other concerns on her mind. During a rest-break Sonic, Quinn and Hardwigg sat around a small space heater. The scrappy-looking thing glowed dull red in the black cavern, and brought only the faintest hint of warmth. Catchie had no need for heat (given her luxurious fur coat) and thus she sat apart from the group. It wasn't the cold that bothered her, but a feeling in her gut. She stared at the gaping back tunnel behind them, her amber eyes narrowed.

"You're making me nervous, Girl-Dog." Sonic worked his words around a large chunk of granola. "Are you sulking 'cause we don't have any meat on the menu, or something?"

Harwigg chuckled at this. Quinn, on the other hand, stared down at his half-eaten granola bar and sighed.

"I could really go for a porterhouse," he grumbled.

Catchie looked back at the group:

"I feel eyes," she muttered. "_Smell _them, too..."

"Uh, gross," Quinn squinted.

Sonic looked over at Hardwigg:

"Expecting more troops down here?"

The mole shook his head:

"No; with Amadeo's personal guard escorting him, and with my troops chaperoning the wolves upstairs, there _shouldn't _be anyone else around." He looked back at the canine. "Well, as for smells, bear in mind that the workers down here have to go at 12-hour shifts, and— how to put it— we don't exactly let them walk _all _the way back up to the city for bathroom breaks. We dig trenches at intervals for that, and try to bury it all nice and deep. But even buried, it can be rather pungent."

Sonic flared his nose, eyes cast askance.

"_I _don't smell anything..."

Hardwigg shrugged:

"Well, that's a hedgehog's nose on your face. Our dog friend here might have a nose more 'suited' to certain smells, hmm? They say canines are quite 'attracted' to the stuff. So long as she doesn't dig it up and roll around in it I think we'll be fine, am I right?" The mole chuckled softly.

Catchie looked behind her, ever so briefly, before returning her eyes to the black tunnel. She was more than content to let the insult go.

"What do you mean by that, exactly?" Sonic asked.

Hardwigg looked up at the hedgehog, shrugging.

"Well, you know—"

"No," Sonic said. "I don't."

"Uh..." Hardwigg gestured to Catchie awkwardly, fumbling for his words. "You know: canines and... well, the things that canines _do_..."

"Ever seen 'em do it? Even once?"

Hardwigg sat up straight, squinting at the hedgehog:

"Well, I— no, but you know what they...uh, say—"

Sonic tilted his head slowly:

"That's funny, 'cause all I heard was you, just now."

A very awkward silence followed. During this time Catchie looked back at the group with curious eyes.

Finally Hardwigg found some words:

"Uh... yes, well, that's what _I _said," he muttered. "And no: I haven't ever seen a canine do it, truth be told."

Sonic nodded.

"So... you'll need to be apologizing, then?"

"Well, of course I'm sorry if my words don't match with my, uh, experience—"

Sonic cut the mole off, pointing to Catchie dramatically:

"_To_ _her_."

Hardwigg sat back a bit. He slowly looked over in Catchie's direction, and by now the raccoon dog was watching the whole scene as if riding out a fever dream. The mole nodded at her:

"I apologize, miss. That was uncalled for. Indecent of me, too. Truth be told I haven't been around canines much, at all. Guess I'm speaking for _others'_ perceptions..."

Catchie nodded gently in response.

"It's fine," she whispered. "And I guess I'm imagining things. It's quite odd, down here."

Before they could pack up and move on Catchie's radio crackled. The transmission was ungodly garbled, but she barely heard Mistress Fionnghal's voice, requesting a pair of strong paws to help clear a bit of rubble in Fionnghal's tunnel.

"We're not too far in yet," Catchie answered, "and I can double back to help you, Mistress, but, well..." she walked off from the group, looking over her shoulder. "Um, respectfully: shouldn't one of _your _personnel be on Sonic's team, just to keep tabs on him? Maybe _more _than a human juvie?"

"No," Fionnghal answered. "Sonic's fine on his own, and Quinn is safe with him, for now. Just get over here and help us with these stones, alright? My paws are blistering, and I don't want Davidinia doing any heavy lifting."

As soon as Catchie returned to the group Sonic questioned her about the call:

"Rat tugging on your leash?"

"Yeah," she answered. "They need help with some digging."

Quinn looked between the raccoon dog and the hedgehog; he looked up at Catchie with crossed arms:

"Well, _I'm _staying with Sonic," he declared.

"Yes," she said. "You are."

Quinn blinked.

"Oh," he said. "Well, I'm glad that we agree—"

"—because the Mistress says you can. Otherwise I would have to drag you back with me—"

"Kicking and screaming," Quinn hissed.

Sonic smirked at Catchie:

"Well, humans have pretty tender necks," he muttered. "There're some nice pressure points I could show you, Girl-Dog..."

Catchie packed up her gear. She warned Sonic to be careful going deeper in, and he assured her that _he _wasn't the one that needed the warning. After double-checking her preparations she was off, working her way back up the craggy slope leading to the fork in the paths.

She thought she'd feel more comfortable going back 'uphill'— slinking out of the dead sea of cold air down in the tunnels, and moving up into more open spaces— but still her fur bristled and her heart beats fast in her chest. After only a minute walking the chemical glow stick dangling off her neck waned, so Catchie cracked a fresh one in between her paws.

The green light caught a blinding flare of silver hiding in the darkness, pressed up near a craggy alcove of rock.

Catchie's eyes widened; she gasped:

"I— what are _you _doing down here—"

A gloved hand caught Catchie's lower face with force, thrusting the raccoon dog back against the rock wall. The hand gripped her jaw shut, and as Catchie struggled to react—

_Thlink!_

Her eyes quivered; she sputtered, coughing up a wad of blood and mucous. The thick stuff oozed out around the steel fingers of the glove pressed over her face.

The tall wolf leered at her, its mask inching down near Catchie's panicked face. It examined her eyes, and then it looked down at its cruel blade, sunk clean through the raccoon dog's chest. The creature beneath the mask spoke with a female voice.

And it was _not _canine.

"Pity, that," she whispered. "Well, it's nothing personal..."

She removed her hand from Catchie's face, and then yanked the blade from her body. She left Catchie to slump down against the black rock wall. The raccoon dog fell onto her side, panting hard, and she stayed awake just long enough to see a pair of black boots strut off, heading down the tunnel, moving off in pursuit of Sonic's group.

And then Catchie went to sleep.

II.

Hardwigg stopped them after another half-hour down the tunnel.

"This... may be trouble," he grumbled.

"What, exactly?" Sonic asked.

The mole quickly looked behind him, staring at the path.

"Oh, there's no doubt," he said.

Hardwigg walked back up the path slowly, inching along, and then he nodded.

"Danger stalks us," he muttered.

Quinn, already shaking from the cold, blinked at the mole.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

Hardwigg knelt down, resting one furry paw against the side of the cavern.

"The air," he said. "I can feel the way it flows." He brushed his free paw over the massive whiskers radiating from his nose. "These ain't exactly for show, you know..."

"What is it?" Sonic asked. "What kind of danger?"

"An unmerciful kind," Hardwigg muttered. "Come here..."

He led the crew a little further down the path until they reached a black slope falling down along one side of the tunnel. The mole took Quinn's glow stick from around the boy's neck and tossed it over the slope. The thing never bounced once as it disappeared into the void.

And it took a _long _time to disappear.

"A precipice?" Sonic asked.

Hardwigg scoffed.

"The precipice _of _precipices," he said. "Here, we're too deep. Oh, yeah, in tunnels like these..." He shook his head. "It looks like Amadeo's expeditions hit a big old heap of really bad news. We've reached the beginning of _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_."

Quinn's head tilted like a dog's.

"Uh... bless you?"

Sonic looked to one side, concentrating. He worked out the words slowly, one at a time:

"'Place of… Troubled... Sleep'?"

Harwigg shrugged.

"Close enough. It's a phrase that doesn't translate too well. What the words are meant to evoke..." the mole shuddered. "Universally-known phenomenon, to moles, but the translation's not gonna be very clear in the highspeak. I can't dwell on it too long without bursting out all a-shiver, myself. Closest translation I can think of would be something like: 'Lair of the Restless Dreamers'."

"'Restless Dreamers'? Well, what is it?" Quinn asked. "Something at the bottom of that hole?"

Hardwigg shook his head.

"_Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh _is the hole," he said. "It's a legendary void in Mobius' superstructure. Not endless, only because the _planet's _not endless. Uh, put another way, it's an anomaly: one huge empty pit— many kilometers wide, countless kilometers deep, probably— worming all around underneath Cake Rim and parts beyond. It's ringed with unusually thick and supportive strata of rock; that's the same kind of rock that helps buttress our own buildings against the normal shifting that happens underground. But the abyss itself...our ancestors considered it a bad omen."

"Guess when you're a mole you would," Sonic said. "Nothing like digging around all carefree in the dirt, right before you come out on top of the ceiling of the underworld..."

"Just so. Whenever they encountered it they took it as a sign not to dig any further in whatever tunnel they worked on. Our ancestors made up legends about what lurked down there. Most said it was another world, entirely, and that it wasn't... a 'pleasant' place."

The mole shook his head as he surveyed the pure blackness below them.

"Superstition isn't what's bothering you, Hardwigg," Sonic said. "What's troubling you, right now?"

"I never heard that the digging expeditions had broken into _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_," he said. "I don't understand why they wouldn't tell us. This would've been major news. The tunnels down here..." Hardwigg looked around him. "They would have been useless to us, now. We would need to work on more, and at _once_. Digging anymore on _these_ would've just been a waste of time..."

Quinn squinted.

"Well maybe they didn't know it was here, yet. Couldn't the _Runner _crash have just exposed this whole _Snae... Snaeph... Smeerp_—"

Sonic sighed.

"The 'big hole in the ground'—"

"—the big hole in the ground?" Quinn asked.

Hardwigg scratched his chin.

"It's not an easy thing to miss," he grumbled. "With our seismic technology we should have seen this thing sneaking up on us _much _earlier."

"Well, not to sound too selfish, but what does this mean for _us_," Sonic tapped his own chest.

"It means that we watch our step," Hardwigg replied. "It's a long way down, and if we've already found one opening to _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_, you can bet there are plenty of others along the way."

Hardwigg was silent for a good time after the discovery of this pit. At first Quinn assumed the obvious: the mole was worried about taking a wrong step and falling right out into some kind of subterranean skyline. But eventually Quinn realized this was incorrect: Hardwigg had his bearings, even down here, and he navigated them quite expertly through the serpentine path. Rather, it must've been the fact that he hadn't been _told _of this discovery. For some reason it really rubbed him the wrong way. Quinn asked Sonic about this when the hedgehog lagged behind the mole.

"Would a Speedster normally hear about something like that?" Quinn asked.

Sonic shrugged:

"Different tribes treat their Speedsters differently. Some only use 'em for dumb muscle; others treat them like top lieutenants. From what I've seen here in Cake Rim Hardwigg seems to run the whole militia, short of Amadeo's personal guard. Seems to me he _should've_ heard about this. But who knows? It's a tribal thing, kid."

"I've heard that phrase before," Quinn grumbled. The boy looked up at the hedgehog. "Oh, and you know mole lowspeak? And sloth lowspeak, too, obviously."

"I can get by." Sonic looked down at the boy. "What's your point?"

"You speak a lot of languages, then," the boy deduced. "That's kinda strange..."

Sonic glared at the boy.

"For someone who doesn't _like _being around others, I mean," Quinn said. "Studying languages seems like a waste of time."

"Everybody needs a hobby," Sonic muttered. "You should find one yourself, you know. Maybe one that _doesn't _involve pestering me so much."

Quinn shook his head.

"I've got a hobby, I think..."

"Guess that's true," Sonic admitted. "Your whole 'quest for identity' thing? Makes for a pretty good time-sink, doesn't it?" The hedgehog considered the boy with a crooked scowl. "Anyway, guess it's too bad that your ship couldn't tell you anything more about you. Nothing more than your allergies, at least..."

"Thanks." Suddenly the boy looked up, brow furrowed. "Wait a minute: how did you understand what the _ship_ was saying to me? It was speaking in a _human _language—"

"Humans _have _been to Mobius before," Sonic growled. The hedgehog quickened his pace, forcing Quinn to trot to keep up with him.

"Well, yeah," Quinn said, "but the only ones who came before _me_ were Eggman's people—"

"Think we can talk about something more interesting than comparative languages?"

They walked in silence. The crooked pathway before them began widening, bringing strange echoes with their footfalls. Eventually Quinn spoke again.

"Thanks for letting me come with you," he said.

"Yeah, well: I thought I might need someone small to wriggle through the rubble at some point."

"It made me feel better," Quinn looked to one side, smoothing the hair over one of his ears. "So, thanks. After what happened with that ship computer—"

"In case you couldn't tell, I don't _care_—"

Quinn shrugged.

"I can tell that's what you want people to think," he said. "It isn't really true though, is it?"

Sonic glared at the boy, sneering.

"I dunno. You wanna find out how deep this _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh _thing is?" Sonic motioned to the massive fault running alongside their path. "I can always send you down to check..."

"That would defeat the purpose of rescuing me from Eggman, wouldn't it? And you obviously care about Fionnghal. The minute I mentioned she was in danger back at the _Filigree _complex you raced off to help her. I think you _act _like you don't care about people, but like I said: it's not really true."

"Maybe I don't care about _people_," Sonic smirked. "Maybe I just care about the rat. Her going after you was suicidal, after all. Maybe saving you was the only way to save _her_. What do you think of that?"

"Do you love Fionnghal, or something?"

Sonic's sneer deepened.

"I'm guessing that's a 'no'," Quinn said.

"Our relationship is... complicated. No point discussing it, really."

"Why not?"

Sonic looked the boy up and down.

"It's complicated _adult_ stuff. And you're like twelve, aren't you?"

"Okay, so why'd you stand up for Catchie just now, huh? You certainly didn't have to do _that_—"

"No, you're right," Sonic admitted. "She was just walking behind us, quietly toting a loaded rifle. So yeah: there's no need to try to keep her from blowing up in a fit of rage or anything, is there?"

They camped again after the passageway opened onto a larger cavern. Hardwigg stopped them near that opening, glaring at the darkness suspiciously.

"What is it?" Quinn whispered.

"More lights," the mole said. He rooted around in a satchel hanging from his waist, searching for more chemical glow sticks.

Sonic stepped in front of Hardwigg, cementing his legs dramatically. The muscles in his hips and calves tensed and he squinted with concentration. Instantly the white orbs in his braces blazed, illuminating the blackness all around them.

And there was still _a lot _of blackness to go. Even with the harsh lights blazing throughout the cavern most of the ground beneath them disappeared into a pitch-black trough, broken only by an uneven lane of narrow, winding rock sticking out of the cavern walls.

"By the depths beneath me," Hardwigg muttered. "Th— this is unbelievable. Nothing but abyss!"

Hardwigg spent the rest break pacing along the drop-off's edge, fidgeting nervously. Quinn sat beside a cross-legged Sonic, who was good enough to maintain a little light with his QED braces. The hedgehog sat with his head against the cavern wall, eyes closed, dozing. The boy couldn't help but stare at his leg braces.

"So those things are... uh, drilled right into you, aren't they?"

"Good eyes on you, there," Sonic scoffed.

"Do they hurt?"

Sonic scoffed again, sneering. When he looked forward and saw Quinn's inquisitive hazel eyes looking up at him, expectant, his face became a little less snarky.

"I mean: do they _ever _hurt?" Quinn asked. "Even a little?"

"Yeah," Sonic admitted. "All the time."

"Oh..."

"You could help, you know."

Quinn cocked his head.

"Hmmm?"

"Didn't I give you a nice, glowy weapon of unspeakable destruction, recently?"

"Oh!" Quinn nodded. He rooted through his back pocket and produced the twisted metal slingshot. He pressed his thumb against the QED in its center, and it blazed with white light. He propped the slingshot up on the rocky ground between them.

"Much obliged," Sonic grunted. He relaxed his leg muscles, and the QEDs in his braces faded.

"About you and Fionnghal," Quinn asked. "You two grew up together in Sulumac'Dun, right? Well, I'm wondering: Fionnghal says that her species of rat was kinda looked down upon by everyone. Nobody really liked 'em, I mean."

"She told you _that_?" Sonic cocked his brow. "And... when you say _her _species..."

Quinn shrugged:

"Brown rats, I guess. Right?"

Sonic again closed his eyes.

"Sure. Whatever."

"Anyway, I'm wondering how you both got to be childhood friends. You know: social pressure, and all. Weren't your parents—"

"My parents were members of the military reserve-guard," Sonic said. "They spent most of their lives as civvies, but one day the High King called them out to do battle with an army waging a campaign against some of our allies in the north. That army was driven away, and they never came back. Neither did my parents, though..."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Quinn said. "How old—"

"_Young_."

"Did you have any other family?"

"No one that close."

"No brothers or sisters?"

Sonic looked to one side, his eyes askance.

"I'm... my parents' only child," he muttered. "Anyway, I suppose I wasn't properly 'supervised' during my youth, so I could make friends with whoever I wanted. That included Fionnghal. And it wasn't all bad company, really: I chummed up with Asher, too."

Quinn sat up:

"You knew Mister Asher as a kid?"

"_Juvenile_."

"Whatever. But how'd you make friends with him? I mean he was a _prince_, and all..."

"I was a war-orphan," Sonic shrugged. "The High King's policy back then was to automatically admit any war-orphans to the Royal Academy for a free education. I bet about half my classes took place right on the palace grounds. A few of them with Ash, too. He was a nice juvie, too; gave me his tickets to the opera, a few times. Hmmm. Sulumac'Dun always did have a nice opera..."

"What kind of things did you study at the Academy?"

Sonic got up and dusted-off his braces.

"Practical things. At least I thought so, at the time. Seeing what happened to my parents— what happened to a lot of soldiers, back then— it taught me how the world worked. I knew where I was needed, after that. I _thought _I knew, at least. The world can be cruel, and so I just chose to learn the things that would prepare me to deal with it. That's all."

"You trained to be a soldier?"

Sonic ambled over toward Hardwigg.

"Uh, more like a _fighter_," he muttered. The hedgehog looked back at Quinn as the boy followed him. "Listen, I— we should really focus on rooting out this fragment, alright?"

Quinn nodded.

"Uh, Sonic: just one more thing..."

"Yeah?"

"Your parents: were they nice?"

He shrugged.

"From what I can remember? Yeah. They were."

Quinn nodded.

"I wonder if _mine_ were," he muttered. "I'd kinda like to think so..."

The hedgehog looked over at Quinn. It looked like he didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.

He didn't really have to.

And, from Quinn's point of view, 'nothing' was the right thing to say, anyway.

II.

The yawning black cavern snaked forward like a serpent.

Asher did likewise.

"Distance?" The cottontail hissed.

"Dunno," Brady whispered. The sloth followed behind Asher, crouched low and slinking.

Asher drew a breath as he gently loaded a pair of shells into his sawn-off. He delicately closed the weapon's chamber, bringing a painfully loud click to the bleak emptiness around them.

They were being followed. No doubt about it. Behind them sinister echoes chased their heels, as if whispering ghosts had sprung up from the cavern walls.

Asher thought that rather unlikely. Whatever was following them was most certainly alive.

For _now_, at least.

A paw on his shoulder nearly caused the cottontail to leap from his skin; Katchy came up beside him.

"Sir," he whispered. "Let me, maybe?" Katchy motioned ahead with his head.

Brady and Asher exchanged glances; Brady shrugged, as if to say 'why not'. Asher nodded at Katchy, and the raccoon dog scrambled up to the head of the line, rifle at the ready.

"All the deep air must be warping our poor doggy's mind," Brady whispered to Asher. "'Bravery' is not exactly the hallmark of a raccoon dog, is it?"

"Nerves are all that someone can hope to have in a place like this," Asher said.

"Call me flat broke, then..."

Everyone tensed as the noise sounded again; the party reached a turn in the cavern, and Katchy plastered himself against the wall, breathing hard. He looked back at Asher and Brady, nodding, and then boldly leapt out around the corner, brandishing his rifle at the darkness.

And then that rifle quite eloquently separated into two pieces.

Blue fire tore through the gloom, highlighting the severed barrel of Katchy's rifle as it hit the ground. A merciless fist caught Katchy right in the solar plexus. As he doubled over in pain an oversized boot found his head, sending the poor thing sprawling backward.

The figure leapt forward, and that's when Asher stepped out and pressed his shotgun to its temple. The creature froze in its tracks, and when the glowstick around Asher's neck bathed it in light the cottontail sighed, growling.

"Hello, Fi..." He pulled his weapon away from the rat's head.

"Oh, Gods..." Fionnghal winched at the glowstick's light, staring looking down at the prostrate raccoon dog with drawn lips. "Sorry about that."

"Eh, he didn't really need that forehead, anyway," Brady mumbled.

Asher helped Katchy to his feet.

"She tends to do that," Asher explained.

"It _is _dark in here," Fionnghal countered.

"Not _that _dark," Brady chuckled. "We might have to have Tails give you an eye exam back home, Mistress, ma'am."

"Her eyes are within normal limits, for her species."

That voice came from a pocket of darkness just beside Brady's hip, and it sent the sloth tumbling over himself, gibbering.

He landed beside Tails; the little kit looked down at him with a cocked brow.

"Balancing issues?" He mused. "_Uncommon_, for yourspecies..."

Brady looked up at the rat:

"Is he making fun of me?"

"Honestly? I can never really tell," Fionnghal looked back up the cavern and gave a brief whistle. Davidinia emerged from the shadows.

"All clear," Fionnghal told her. "So far, at least."

"So your tunnel merged into ours?" Asher guessed.

"Other way around," Fionnghal said. "But yeah, looks that way. We hit rubble, but at least we were able to clear it." The rat looked over at Katchy. "No thanks to your sister, I might add. We recalled Catchie from Sonic's group, but she never showed to help us."

"Think she got lost?" Katchy asked. "Or..."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"I'm sure she's fine, just turned around a bit. This is really no place for a canine, is it? Or a rat like me, either. We like to follow our _noses_. And down here it's so dank and septic—"

"It's no place for _any _decent creature," Brady grumbled. He looked over at Davidinia. "Err, present company excepted, of course..."

"No offense taken," Davidinia said. "Anyway, some find it much easier to be _indecent_, down in the darkness."

The combined party journeyed through the remaining cavern, Davidinia leading the way with her molish senses. Fionnghal walked abreast of her.

"Out of curiosity, Davidina: who do you think is being 'indecent' down here, exactly?"

The mole shook her head.

"I... didn't really mean anything by that, Fionnghal. I didn't really have a point—"

"Maybe you should have. I know we were aggressive back there in the meeting room with the Delts— I mean, Delta Tribe. To be honest, you haven't really caught us at our best, right now. They hit us hard not too long ago, and we lost quite a bit in the fight. We're still raw about that. It _is _important that they don't get their hands on that fragment— believe me— but maybe we could've been more 'diplomatic' in our approach. You didn't deserve all those threats..."

Davidinia shook her head, looking away.

"_Don't_." The mole drew a breath, slowly looking back at the rat. "Please: don't apologize." She swallowed, hard, and then smiled softly. "It's... unnecessary. We understand the nature of your struggle, topside. Really, we do. That's the reason we want this fragment, uh, dealt with, as soon as possible..."

Asher glared at Fionnghal when the rat stole a cursory glance at him; clearly he was walking closer to her than she thought, and that little apology on his behalf was not intended for _his _ears.

If that was the case then she might do well to speak a little further away from a floppy-eared cottontail.

Eventually they came across a series of great fissures in the path, all of them plunging into darkness. Davidinia explained that these were small sinkholes, a routine occurrence whenever large tunnels were dug. She changed her tune a bit when, during a rest break, an inquisitive Tails sent a sonar signal coursing through the rock. His signal swept down into the black fissures and it disappeared from his readout.

And it did _not _return.

"Estimated depth is _kilometers_," the kit explained. "Not meters. Not a sinkhole: more a _cyst_...like...thing..."

"Quite an amazing reading. Fantastic, too." Davidina looked to Fionnghal. "Do you think that this 'fragment' of yours has the power to so thoroughly disrupt machines, giving them such an absurd reading?"

Fionnghal tilted her head slowly. She looked over at the little kit.

"Uh, Tails: do you think this fragment of ours has the power to so thoroughly disrupt machines?"

Tails stared at his feet, shaking his head and mumbling.

"Don't think the Emerald really minds _electronics_," he said. "It hates _physics_, though..."

"It's possible, at least," Davidinia said.

Tails scratched at the bandage on his forehead.

"Well, electronics really _is _physics, you know. Fancy physics. Fancy physics with _lightning_. Fancy physics with lightning and diodes, and capacitors and _actuators _and galvanic resistive _conductors. _Andvoltaged-gated, nickel-plated, semi-permeable inductors, and—"

"He's broken, again," Brady mumbled.

"He'll tire himself out in a minute or two," Fionnghal said.

Minutes later their tiny tunnel opened up into a sprawling network of narrow rock abutments spanning a massive chamber. The cavern ceiling was domed, vaguely, looming many stories above them. It was incredible, easily twice the size of the main Cake Rim city chamber, and Asher's eyes trembled as he watched one of their launched flares sail through the air, half-a-kilometer out into the dark, meeting no resistance.

And then there was the blinding green glint.

"Anyone else see—"

"Oh, yeah," Fionnghal muttered. "Even _I _can see that..."

Perilous bridges of crumbling earth spanned the chasm stretched before them, and one of those misshapen islands bore a wedge of brilliant green glass, sandwiched between two rock outcroppings, perhaps six meters wide. The harsh orange flare skirted above it, and as it did the fragment began to hum with a melodic timbre. The noise was fleeting, beautiful and yet terrifying. _Ghostly_. That was it. It was something like the echoes of practicing vocalists hidden far backstage, echoing into the balconies of a lonely concert hall.

Asher wigglied his head; the analogy reminded him waytoo much of his juvenile visits to the Royal Opera House— stuffy air, stiff suits, and _strangling_ boredom. All too mandatory, those. But at least he got a front row seat. Brilliant, really. Asher never thought too much about his eventual rise to the throne during his youth, but the one thing he fantasized about more than anything else— especially during a visit to the opera— was that he could eventually demolish that whole damned building. It wouldn't be boring, at least. And he could even sell tickets to the event!

_And_ he could sit in the front row...

The group slowly walked into the massive cavern. Brady squinted at the glittering green bridge over the chasm.

"That'sthe fragment? '_Fragment'_? Damn thing's bigger than a pair of tanuki testicles!" Brady looked over at Katchy. "Uh, no offense..."

The raccoon dog smiled.

"Huh: _offense_?"

"Focus!" Fionnghal growled.

Asher thought he should state the obvious at this point.

"There's very little _ground_, here..."

"Afraid of heights?" Fionnghal smirked. "Maybe your lapine luck will save you, if you fall..."

Tails leaned out over the edge of the abyss stretched before them, his tiny body wobbling precariously:

"Luck is inconsequential at terminal velocity."

Fionnghal gently gripped the kit's scruff, pulling him back from the edge.

"That's actually quite a profound little statement," Brady said. "Words to live by, really..."

"Admittedly the 'terminal' part does bother me," Asher muttered.

"Then watch your step," Fionnghal declared, "'cause we're going in."

III.

Sonic's group followed their tunnel to its end, and it opened up to the incredible chamber housing the emerald fragment. Before them a narrow bridge of rock and dust spanned the infinite abyss. Steep slopes along the endless cavern walls dropped down to a network of rocky outcroppings far below them. Sonic gazed at that rock bridge, and the massive green flooring that completed its midsection. His eyes trembled.

And he exhaled very slowly.

"Wow," Quinn muttered. "_That_... is huge!"

The hedgehog stepped forward slowly. As he did so an orange missile zoomed by overhead— it was a flare. Sonic looked down the drop-off beside the rock bridge. He saw nothing, but he could hear voices.

"Hmm. That must be all of the other reindeer," Quinn muttered.

Hardwigg scowled.

"What exactly is _that _supposed to mean?"

Quinn shook his head:

"No idea," he muttered. "But it's clever, I think…"

As the hedgehog walked forward the most curious thing happened; the great emerald fragment before them seemed to glow, and even _hum_. Sonic cocked his head, squinting.

"What?" He whispered. "What is it? Do you... _know _me? Are you... _remembering_?"

The hedgehog smiled devilishly.

"Are you... _afraid_?"

And at that moment two things happened. First, a sudden blast of what appeared to be multicolored lightning exploded from the emerald dangling around Sonic's neck, and it bridged the gap between him and the fragment instantly. The beams danced across the polished surface of the fragment like water droplets on a sizzling stove.

And then Sonic was thrown backward about six feet, straight through the air.

"Ow," he muttered.

Quinn raced over to him, standing over the hedgehog as he lay supine. The boy wrinkled his nose, and when Sonic drew a breath he winced as well; black smoke roiled off his body, curling from his fur. Nothing seemed to be on fire. But only _just_.

"Wow," the boy said.

"Yeah, 'wow'," Sonic coughed.

Quinn helped Sonic to his feet. He didn't _need _help— physically— but the sudden ordeal of being turned into a bottle rocket did mix up his head a bit.

"What in blazes was that?" Hardwigg asked.

"Dunno," Sonic muttered. He examined the emerald around his neck; for a moment sparks seemed to dance beneath the glistening green surface, but soon the lightshow faded into nothing.

Both he and Quinn furrowed their brows.

"Weird," they both muttered, completely in sync.

They looked up at each other.

"Think it'll do that if you go near it again?" Quinn asked.

Sonic looked behind the boy, down the sloping drop-off; Asher and Fionnghal's combined group slowly trod across a balcony of earth that ringed the black abyss.

"It might," Sonic muttered. "So, with that in mind, make sure you tuck and roll, kid..."

Quinn cocked his head.

"Wha—"

He didn't quite know what was happening until Sonic's knee bumped his chest.

"That was rather harsh," Hardwigg noted as they watched the boy tumble down the slop, screaming all the while.

"He's tougher than he looks," Sonic said. "Good thing, too; that's quite a fall..." The hedgehog turned to Hardwigg. "Listen, you might wanna go down and help them out, also see where Amadeo's gotten to."

"Seems you could use my help, here—"

"No," he growled. "Don't worry about it..." Sonic looked back to the emerald fragment; the thing's sickly green light washed over his narrowing eyes.

"...I'll, uh, I'll 'deal' with this thing, myself."

IV.

Fionnghal coughed the rock dust out of her lungs; she looked up at Quinn, who pinned her shoulders with his hands— a dust-coated mess, himself. He'd hit her with enough energy to send them both into a set of three head-over-heel tumbles.

She didn't know about him, but Fionnghal certainly felt each of them quite keenly.

"Hello, Quinn..."

"Hi," the boy coughed.

"Being clumsy, are we?"

"Not exactly."

They got to their feet, and as the dust settled Fionnghal's group— scattered by the commotion— approached the pair.

"Sonic?" She asked.

"Don't think I _quite_ broke the sound barrier coming down." Quinn groused. "Close..."

"What exactly is he doing up there?" Ashe said. The cottontail looked up the steep slope with narrowed eyes.

"Dunno," Quinn answered. "Didn't want me up there, though. That's for sure."

Fionnghal looked over at Asher, her lips drawn worriedly.

Brady ambled up to the pair:

"Why do I have a feeling that Sonic reaching the fragment first is _not _a good thing?"

"It's nothing," Asher said. "Not like he can just lift the thing over his head and dash off with it. He still needs our help to remove it, right?"

"Right," Fionnghal nodded. "Ash: you should take the group up the path further along the rim; see if it comes up on the other side of the bridge."

"What're you gonna do?"

Fionnghal looked up the gigantic slope.

"I might be able to climb this. _Maybe_."

"Heck of a climb," Brady noted.

Fionnghal popped her bony knuckles.

"I've got a heck of a grip," she said. Fionnghal looked back at Asher. "It'll be fine," she said. "Easier than grappling over moldy ruins in Sulumac'Dun, anyway..."

Asher nodded.

"Alright, then."

"Want me to go with Mister Asher?" Quinn asked.

"Nope," both Asher and Fionnghal answered in sync.

"You wait _right here_," Fionnghal pointed at a space of earth in front of her. "And _don't _move."

"Unless Mistress trips up and takes the 'express' route down," Brady cheerfully said. "In that case try to mend her bones as best you can..."

Fionnghal glared at Brady.

"Best you all get moving," she growled.

"I'll stay with you," Davidina steep forward. "To help look after the juvenile."

Quinn crossed his arms.

"I don't _need_—"

"Thank you," Fionnghal said. "He is a touch accident prone..."

Now it was Quinn's turn to glare.

Asher and the remaining group duly soldiered off, heading around the bend in the path. Fionnghal spent a minute or two preparing for her climb, at first trying to decide whether to exploit her sword's ability to project hadron screens— maybe use them as footholds— but she ultimately decided against it. Touching those blue curtains of light was a tricky business; the way the curtains behaved to anything touching them depended on that matter's overall momentum, and so she'd need to use some pretty forceful steps to secure any purchase. In other words she'd have to literally stomp her way up the screens. In the end her feet were just as likely to get stuck in the screens as they were to pass through them, and neither scenario was exactly ideal.

"Wouldn't wanna screw this up," she muttered. "One wrong move and I might find out whether these holes in the ground are deep, or not..."

"Of course they are," Quinn said. "They're the _Snow-Falls-Jokers_."

The rat looked back at him.

"Or _something _like that," Quinn said. "Hardwigg told us about them: they're kinda like bottomless pits. Really famous to the moles." Quinn looked back at Davidinia. "Isn't that right?"

Davidinia looked to one side.

"Uh... uh, I..."

"Oh! And I'm not saying the name right, am I? It's more like, uh, _Sna... snauh..._"

Suddenly a lone voice echoed through the darkness, coming from behind a bank of rocks.

"_Snaephaelzh_..."

Fionnghal's head came up; the rat watched as a shadow emerged from around the bend. Amadeo stepped out of the darkness, his purple robes bright against the light of their glowsticks.

"..._Jo'ehkuelh_," he finished.

Amadeo approached the group, nodding to Fionnghal respectfully.

"The curse of the deep earth, and our bane for so long," he said. "Such a thorn in our side..."

"How so?" Fionnghal asked.

Quinn turned away from Amadeo, focusing all his attention on Fionnghal. He appeared quite pleased to actually have some knowledge, and more than eager to share:

"A big, big hole in the ground. No one knows how far down it goes, but it ruins mole tunnels whenever they dig one and run into it. Kinda like a raisin in the middle of a cookie, you know?"

Fionnghal tilted her head.

Quinn looked down at his shoes:

"Although, wait— I might _like _raisins. I don't know. Hmmm..."

Fionnghal looked back at Davidinia, standing before the yawning abyss behind them.

"Bottomless pit, huh? You couldn't tell that's what this was, Davidinia?"

"I..." the mole shook her head. "I wasn't... sure, Fionnghal. You see... th— the important thing is we _deal _with this emerald situation, isn't it?"

Amadeo laughed.

"Oh, my mate was _quite_ certain, Mistress Fionnghal."

Fionnghal turned around once again to face Amadeo; when she did she saw the mole standing behind Quinn, one arm draped over the boy's shoulder, his other paw pressing a glistening gun to Quinn's neck. Quinn stood knock-kneed, teeth on edge, trying to look at the weapon out of the corner of his eyes, but dissuaded by the mole's iron grip on his shoulder.

Fionnghal scowled.

"What do you think you're doing, Amadeo?"

"'Dealing' with the emerald situation." The mole's words dripped with venom.

"Seriously," she growled. "You _can't _be doing this…"

"Would you test me, rat?" Amadeo pressed the gun even tighter against Quinn's neck.

Fionnghal looked at Quinn with intense eyes, giving the boy the slightest of nods.

Quinn, eyes wild, reciprocated.

"He's just a little human," Fionnghal said. The rat slowly unsheathed _Curtainrod_. "He's _filth _on Mobius. You _really _think I care what happens to him?"

"Yes, I do," Amadeo answered. "Given the way you raced forward so quickly to comfort the poor boy after he opened up that ship up for us."

"That was just to help keep him in line—"

"That was instinctual," Amadeo said. "Heartwarming, to a point. But it also provesmy point: I believe that spilling his blood would roil _yours_..."

Fionnghal's scowl deepened. She pointed _Curtainrod_ at Amadeo, hissing:

"Shoot him," she said, "and I'll cut you the hell in _half_!"

The click of a gun against her head startled her; Fionnghal looked to the side, and Davidinia was there with a handgun pointed at the rat.

"What are you doing, Davidinia?"

The mole shook her head; her whiskers shivered erratically.

"I'm... I'm so sorry, Fionnghal. Really, I am..."

The rat's face fell; she looked back at Amadeo, eyes burning:

"You can't possibly _want _that fragment! Not after we explained everything to you: you can _never _live in peace with it!"

The mole chuckled, and then laughed. Quinn tried to take this opportunity to wriggle away from him, but this attempt was met with a stern paw on his collarbone and the gun barrel cemented to his temple; the boy whimpered.

"Oh, that's _rich_!" Amadeo chortled. "You both come in here— you and those bastard canine mongrels— and you both have the gall to threaten us, in our own home, and to _demand _from us what is the key to _our _salvation!"

Fionnghal's eyebrows twitched. She looked back at Davidinia, and the female mole avoided her gaze.

"Your... 'salvation'?"

Quinn's brow ticked.

"They _knew _they'd hit the _Snowfall's Jack-hole_!" He said. "But they didn't care: they were _trying _to reach the emerald fragment, even before the _Runner _crashed—"

Amadeo rapped the butt of his gun against Quinn's forehead; the boy winched, shaking his head.

"Ow..." he muttered.

"Hit him again and I'll—" Fionnghal began.

"I won't hit him again," Amadeo said. "I'll _shoot _him. As for the fragment, we did _not _set out to claim it. These tunnels were originally built to see to our expansion, to relieve the overcrowding we suffer from. We put everything we had into them. And we risked so _much _on their success. By the time we detected the first signs of _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_ it was too late to begin building another tunnel series. Not without... sacrifices..."

Davidinia stared down at her baby-bump, whiskers still twitching fiercely.

"But then we detected the first signs of the emerald fragment," Amadeo continued. "And it was then that I knew we _had _to complete these tunnels. Once we had the fragment, everything would change—"

"Yeah: you'd have Delta Tribe coming after you without mercy! They'd never leave you be—"

"Them _and _you, Fionnghal," Davidinia said. "You'll remember that you were no better, back in that conference room. Theta Tribe is as great a threat to us as Delta; neither of you is any better than the other."

"I... tried to apologize about that, Davidinia. And still: that's just one more reason to give that fragment up! It's too much trouble—"

Amadeo shook his head.

"Oh, no," he said. "What's 'too much trouble' is you and your damned factions: your pointless little surface war. You and Delta Tribe are two poles of the same magnet, my dear, and you're drawn to each other in the bloodiest way imaginable. Those like you have ruined this planet, and you'll keep ruining it. Well, you can do it without us!"

"You're a part of this planet, Amadeo!"

The mole shook his head.

"Not for long. With the emerald fragment in our hands Tau Tribe will have the power to make enough QEDs to do anything we can imagine; the machinery we'll create will bend the earth to our whims: tunneling, ventilation, agriculture, and none of it restricted by the picayune laws of physics. You want to make weapons to fight your idiotic war? Well, we have grander designs in mind. With this fragment we can even tame _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_ itself! Our QED-powered machines can keep the boiling interiors of the earth habitable, bring air to the sulphurous depths, ignite an artificial _sun_ for our needs, and find water where it lurks. We will _bury _ourselves in the very pit of the earth, where none dare follow, and _then _we will have peace!"

Quinn swallowed nervously.

"So... yeah, that sounds rational..." he muttered.

Fionnghal looked back at Davidinia. The rat's blue eyes bored into the mole:

"Davidinia: this can't be what you want..."

The mole rested one paw on her pregnant belly:

"We don't have a choice, Fionnghal. _Want _doesn't factor into it. It's about _needs_."

"You can't just turn your back on the planet! You can criticize us for our fighting, and I'll admit: we do tear into each other up there. But we're fighting to keep the world together. At least we think we are. We _think _we're doing good. Maybe it's only our best guess, but I think it's a good one. We believe that this world is worth saving..."

Amadeo growled.

"Your definition of 'saving' doesn't sit well with us, Mistress. Those like you convince us, more than anything, that our destiny lies outside of the sunlight! Ours is a _tribal _concern, and that's all it _should_ be. Tell me I'm wrong, rat. Be honest, and give me _one _reason I'm wrong!"

Fionnghal looked down at the ground, teeth cemented together.

"It may be a tribal thing, Amadeo, but you can't travel without the sun forever. I know that much, at least."

Small pebbles tumbled down the slope; Hardwigg came down the incline, balancing on his oversized feet. The mole did a double take as he took stock of the situation.

"Sir..." he looked first at Quinn, gun to his temple, and then at his leader.

"Ah," Amadeo sighed. "'Noble' Hardwigg..."

"What's going on, here?"

"Dirty business, my good Speedster. The kind I knew you'd be averse to. This burden, Hardwigg, was meant for myself, for my mate, and my personal guard. Never for you, Hardwigg. No, never for you..."

"Burden, huh?" Fionnghal narrowed her eyes. "You never wanted him to know? That means your plan involved making sure there's no one _around _to let him know. You're gonna kill us, Amadeo?"

Davidinia stepped forward:

"No: that was never part of the plan, Fionnghal. You have to believe me!"

Fionnghal looked back at the female; she nodded.

"Yeah... I believe you, Davidinia. I believe that's what you _thought_, at the time..."

"Fionnghal—"

"What about it, Amadeo?" Fionnghal bared her teeth. "You can't let _anyone _walk away from this; the Delts would learn about your deception— and my tribe in the Thallomoor. What was it gonna be? An 'accident' that claims our lives, and 'seals' the fragment forever more?"

Amadeo looked between his mate and his Speedster; he sighed dramatically.

"Cave ins _can_ be such a 'tragic' reality of spelunking, Mistress," he hissed.

"Amadeo!" Davidinia gasped. "Th— that's not true! It can't be..."

"Just a practical consideration," Fionnghal explained. "You see, we have plenty of _those _on the surface, too. They're actually _my _specialty. They're my whole world." The rat looked at Amadeo, sneering: "Twisted minds must think alike, huh?"

"Any twists in my thoughts, dirty rat, are purely born of _necessity_—"

"'Necessity'," Fionnghal whispered. "Yeah, that's my world, too..."

Hardwigg stepped forward:

"Sir: you can't possibly be serious? _We_ brought these tribe members down here. We bargained with them— _negotiated_—"

"The surrender of our true future, Hardwigg." Amadeo shook his head. "No. That won't be happening, today. And in a few minutes, as soon as my personal guard ambushes her tribemates—"

"That _won't happen_!" Fionnghal growled.

Amadeo tapped the side of Quinn's skull with the gun.

"_He _could live, you know. Oh, he could never, ever leave Cake Rim again. But he _could _live through all this. The little kit, too, perhaps..."

Davidinia approached her mate; her gun's aim on Fionnghal wavered:

"Amadeo, that was _never _what we planned!"

"Not what someone like _you _could plan, Davidinia," Fionnghal looked over at the mole. "Maybe not something that your Speedster could plan, either. But it's something I should have seen, I guess. I know it, well enough."

Amadeo smiled beneath his thick fur.

"You probably should have seen it, Mistress Fionnghal. It's the only currency this blasted world seems to run on these days..."

"_Necessity_..."

Amadeo's head rose in alarm; that voice came from behind him, and—

_Thlink!_

The mole's body suddenly jerked up quite unnaturally, like a marionette; Amadeo's mouth gaped, and a strange nasally whine escaped his nose. A sputtering cough escaped his mouth, and there was more on his trembling lips than spit and mucous.

The mole collapsed like a heap of bricks, his purple cloak fluttering every which way until it landed still over his body. Quinn fell forward, but was then suddenly pulled to his feet by a slender arm held taut around his neck. The silver mask of a wolf beamed in the darkness.

And then the figure discarded her mask.

"Your _disaster_ _nears_," the Dame commander hissed.

Davidinia screamed. She raced towards Amadeo's body, gibbering. In her shock she might not even have been aware of the handgun she still held, which she waved erratically in one paw.

"_Davidinia_!" Fionnghal cried. The rat reached out to hold her back.

But she was too late.

Bellesailes spun on her heels; pistons on her back flared to life and a cruel network of struts burst from her body, all of them bearing the cold cloth of metal wings. The Dame thrust these out as she spun, and as Davidinia raced up to her mate's side the razor wings found her body.

She was gone before Fionnghal could even react.

Engines flared to life, screaming throughout the large cavern. Smoke and fire billowed behind the damselfly, and then both she and Quinn were airborne.

Fionnghal rolled forward, taking up the pistol from Amadeo's corpse. She drew a bead on the Dame as her rockets brought her into a hover over the great black abyss. Bellesailes looked down at the rat and held one hand before her face, wagging a finger. Quinn still struggled in her grasp, and the damselfly pointed down at the blackness beneath her; her sneer deepened.

The rat grit her teeth, pulling her gun off the pair.

Quinn rammed his head up against Bellesailes' jaw, but owing to the metal brace beneath it he only got a knock to the noggin for his trouble. The Dame let loose a piercing scream in her lowspeak. The noise brought both Fionnghal and Hardwigg to their knees in pain. Quinn spasmed in Bellesailes' arms as if he were suffering a seizure.

When the damselfly was finished she screamed out into the cavern in the highspeak:

"Your _doom rushes_!"

And then, out of the darkness, there was another sound: howling.

Gunshots echoed in the distance.

The Dame glared at Fionnghal.

"Eggman cometh," She snarled.

Bellesailes looked up at the tiny land bridge that bore the emerald fragment. With one last glare at Fionnghal she was off, rocketing through the air, carrying a still-struggling Quinn on one arm.

V.

First there was the shriek behind them, and then there was the gunfire up ahead of them.

"What the hell?" Asher growled.

A shadow slowly lumbered through the darkness before them; Asher readied his sawn-off and challenged the figure:

"_Identify yourself_!"

The figure did not.

"Warning shot?" Brady asked.

Asher let loose both barrels, dead center on the dark golem.

"...or not," Brady shrugged.

But, to nearly everyone's surprise, the figure merely flinched before stepping forward again.

Tatu emerged from the darkness; the armadillo scowled at Asher, nodding genteelly, before looking down at his vest. Smoking pieces of buckshot dotted the garment, even buried all the way down against his armored skin. The armadillo plucked a few pieces out of himself before carelessly tossing them to one side.

"Ouch," he muttered.

"K-Dog: take Miles to safety, please."

"But—"

Asher glared at Katchy.

"_Now_!"

The raccoon dog reluctantly disengaged, leading Tails away from the scene.

"And Brady—"

"Shove it." Brady adjusted his claw extenders and stood beside the cottontail.

"As you wish..."

Tatu stepped forward.

"You didn't think it'd be that easy to get rid of us. Did you, Ash?"

"Tat: if those gunshots are hitting my people I swear that—"

"You aren't the mission, Ash. The emerald is. And it's _Tau _Tribe that's in our way. The wolves have been stalking the mole leader's personal guard. They weren't too keen on taking them all out, but I guess they finally wised up. _Someone_ gave the order, anyway. It doesn't matter who. If you're all smart you'll disengage. _Now_. You should know that we've left nothing to chance here; everything is in _our _total and complete control—"

At that moment Bellesailes blitzed past the group, sailing on her rocket-assisted wings. She held Quinn securely in her arms. The boy's screams made a nice Doppler-effect as the pair disappeared across the chasm.

Tatu merely stared at the Dame, blinking.

"Wh— what the hell?"

Brady crossed his gangly paws, sighing:

"Oh, look: the human juvie's in trouble. You know, I totally _didn't_ see that one coming..."


	16. Immutable Law

"Immutable Law"

I.

Bellesailes touched down dead-center on the emerald fragment, her ugly spiked boots delicately clinking down along the glassy surface. She unceremoniously dumped Quinn in front of her, and he landed hard. The boy quickly got to his feet, fists balled and eyes wild.

"I wouldn't," she cautioned him before he could throw the first punch. The Dame turned her back on him, examining the gemstone they stood atop in closer detail. When he tried approaching her again Bellesailes' metal wings ruffled ominously.

"You're no longer part of our objectives, little human: I could fillet you alive, if it suited me. You're good to me as a hostage right now," she explained, "but only so long as you're a _good _little hostage. Understand?" She faced the boy briefly, flashing an uptight smile. "And you're welcome for saving your life, too."

"You killed Amadeo. _Davidinia_, too!"

"Again: _welcome_."

"Sh— she was—"

"She was in... my... _way_," the Dame snarled. "She'd have probably killed your precious little dirty rat, too."

Bellesailes got down on all fours, crawling along one edge of the fragment where it met the rocky gap it bridged. She grunted as she examined the fissure.

Quinn's breaths came harder and harder. The boy slowly reached into his back pocket, feeling the grip of his slingshot in his hand. He pulled it out, so very slowly, and got to his knees.

"We could've talked our way out of it..." Quinn reached down and picked a stray rock pebble off the fragment.

The Dame scoffed.

"Talk is cheap, little human. Death leaves a more lasting impression..."

"Sure does..." The boy put the pebble into his slingshot and leveled it at the damselfly. He drew it back, activating the glowing QED.

The Dame stopped her work, noticing the pregnant pause in the air; she got to her feet and turned around, only to be confronted with Quinn's slingshot, aimed right at her chest. At first Bellesailes laughed, her reptilian face set in a mocking sneer, but then she noticed the glowing white QED at the weapon's junction, and her face suddenly fell. The slits of her nose flared, and her ruddy eyes widened.

"What's wrong, huh?" Quinn sneered. "Not gonna try to talk your way out of this, you cold-blooded bitch?"

Bellesailes' face adopted a more determined bent; her eyes narrowed.

"Talk is _cheap_, little human."

The Dame gazed at Quinn for the longest time, her copper eyes boring into the boy. Eventually she took one step forward.

"Don't you _dare _think I won't—"

"I don't 'think'; I play the odds. And..."

Another step.

"...odds are..."

Step.

"_Don't_!"

"...that you _won't_—"

"I _mean it_!"

"...shoot..."

Step.

"_me_—"

_Blam_!

The bullet ricocheted off the emerald, kicking up a spark, and it narrowly missed Bellesailes' left foot. The gunshot so startled Quinn that he stumbled. Bellesailes took the opportunity to knock the boy down. She somersaulted over him and then scooped him up with— of all things— her own metal wings.

The Dame came down in a combat stance, facing away from the gunfire, with Quinn wrapped up in her wings like a baby in a papoose. Only part of Quinn's head was exposed, and the boy struggled mightily.

"_Coward_!" He screamed.

Bellesailes remained low, awaiting a second shot.

"Eggman told me these wings were bulletproof," she whispered. "But I'm not so sure; anyway, I think you'd make an excellent test subject..."

Footsteps in front of the Dame brought her to an even lower crouch. A figure emerged from the darkness. Quinn could barely crane his neck to see it.

Bellesailes' surprised scowl became a crooked smile.

"Hedgehog," she growled.

Sonic walked out onto the emerald surface, his footfalls slow and confident.

"Hello there, Sawed-Off." He smirked.

Bellesailes' brittle teeth ground together.

"Seems that a claim's already been laid to this rock," Sonic said, tapping the crystal with one foot. "So why don't you shuttle back home to your master, huh, little Sawed-Off? Before he tugs your leash too hard."

Bellesailes snarled.

Sonic cocked his head at Quinn.

"Oh, and leave the juvie, while you're at it."

The damselfly smiled.

"Why, certainly, Sonic hedgehog. How could I ever refuse?"

Despite her rosy words, she only complied with his second request.

Rockets roared to life along her back; Bellesailes spun like a top, unfurling her wings and ejecting Quinn with the force of a boulder fired from a trebuchet. The boy smacked into Sonic with force, sending the pair hurtling backward. Sonic broke the boy's fall, and the jagged rocks on the ground 'broke' his. Bellesailes took to the air, sending a gust of rocket exhaust behind her, eclipsing her from view, and all at once a set of barrels flipped up all along her wings' struts. They began to whine, and then rotate with increasing speed.

Sonic's eyes widened.

To her credit, the Dame did nothing until Sonic sent the boy tumbling behind a nearby rock. As soon as he did this, however, the Gatling guns on Bellesailes' wings roared to life, bathing the cavern in ugly flashing light, peppering the bridge with bullets.

The bullets struck only a blur; Sonic managed to reach a nearby outcropping of rock, which shielded him from the gunfire. He crouched low, emerald around his neck glowing brilliant pink, as the flying damselfly continued raining bullets down upon him.

"Not so high and mighty now, are we, hedgehog?" She screamed. "Do you want _these _wings, too? Do you? Come and _get _them, hedgehog! Come on! Let's see what you're made of, you pathetic needle-back!"

Quinn loaded another pebble into his slingshot, peering above the rock with steel eyes. Sonic hissed at the boy from his own rocky nook, shaking his head. When Quinn shrugged in exasperation the hedgehog pointed to the cavern ceiling above them. Quinn noticed a small stalactite chunk suspended just above Bellesailes' head. He looked back at Sonic, who had retrieved his own pebble. The hedgehog splayed one leg out, preparing for a kick, and he held up his hand in Quinn's direction.

Four fingers became three, and then two, and then one, and then—

Quinn drew a bead on the ceiling and fired his slingshot just as Sonic whipped out a roundhouse kick, sending his pebble rocketing skyward. Both projectiles nailed the stalactite, which crumbled and rained down right on top of the hovering damselfly. The shower was enough to disrupt the Dame's flight, bringing her down to the emerald's surface, coughing on rock dust. She screamed in her lowspeak, and the sound brought spots to Quinn's eyes.

Bellesailes unsheathed a long sword.

"_Fine_, hedgehog!" She shrieked. She ran a finger along the sword's blade. "I was saving _this _for the dirty rat, but it'll be just as satisfying to use against you!"

The Dame rolled up her wings and took on a menacing pose, sword outstretched to one side, with her other arm similarly outstretched for counterbalance.

"Now, hedgehog: come and get it!"

In all this commotion Quinn had forgotten about that unseen gunman.

So had Bellesailes. And as that drab curtain of rocket exhaust disappeared behind her—

_Blam_!

The Dame's face scrunched quizzically, as if she'd come upon a tricky brain teaser. Bellesailes moved her free hand up before her face and she looked at her palm.

She looked _through _her palm.

And as she contemplated that smoking hand, yellow gunk dribbling out the open wound, a loud clack drew her attention rearward.

The raccoon dog leaned against a rock, near the cavern opening. Catchie breathed heavily, and she appeared very tired. All the same she held her rifle steady, and one giant black eye gazed down her gun's sight.

Bellesailes' jaw dropped. Her thin lips trembled.

"I— what— how are _you_...here—"

Catchie aimed at Bellesailes' head.

"Nothing personal," she snarled.

And then she fired. Her shot was accurate, and it struck true.

But the bullet hit metal, not flesh; Sonic descended out of the air, little more than a jumbled blur, and Catchie's gunshot bounced off one of his braces, instead of ripping through Bellesailes' teeth. As soon as he landed Sonic faced the Dame, who only had a millisecond to register surprise before the hedgehog leapt up and gave her a roundhouse kick to the forehead— at regular speed— which sent the damselfly reeling backward. He followed this up with a quick fist to the face. Bellesailes wobbled unsteadily on her feet, eyes fluttering, before finally collapsing in a messy heap.

Quinn emerged from his hiding place, legs trembling. He slowly approached Sonic as the hedgehog rolled the unconscious Dame onto her side. Sonic took a minute to admire her gossamer metal wings, tapping them with his foot.

"Pretty," he mused.

And then he stomped the things repeatedly, viciously, crushing the whole apparatus into a mess of metal dust.

Catchie moseyed on over to the emerald surface, one paw held tight over the chest of her shirt. Quinn noticed dried blood on the fringes of her clothing.

"You bleeding? Are you okay, Catchie?"

She nodded.

"Yeah. I just got lost in the tunnels for the longest time..." she noticed Quinn looking down at her wound. "And I tripped and fell on some sharp rocks. Cut me like a bunch of little knives. But I'm fine, other than those two bits of misfortune—"

"_Three_ bits of misfortune," Sonic noted. "You shot at me."

Catchie cocked her head at the unconscious Dame commander.

"I shot at _her_—"

"—while I was closing in to take her down. You should've seen that, I think—"

"—_you _should have seen Catchie aiming her gun," Quinn crossed his arms. "The Dame was toast! Catchie really did have this in the bag, Sonic."

The hedgehog shook his head, sneering at the raccoon dog.

"Do _not_ get in my way again..."

Catchie cocked her head at Bellesailes:

"What do we do with her?"

"Well, since _I _bagged her, I guess _I _have her, don't I?" He then looked at Catchie. "Leave her to me. You should check in on—"

Suddenly the earth rumbled; tremors in the land bridge shook pebbles and dirt in all directions. Cracks began forming around rocks supporting the embedded emerald. Everything suddenly shuddered; the bridge fell about a foot downward, and it wobbled unsteadily.

Sonic pushed Quinn into the Raccoon Dog's arms.

"Get him out of here, _now_."

"But the emerald fragment—"

"Leave it to me," Sonic said. He looked back at the stone surface with dagger eyes. "I'll deal with _that_ thing, too..."

II.

"Unless you wanna walk into the wolf trap," Tatu crossed his arms, "you'd best be turning around, now, Ash."

Asher scratched one of his oversized ears with the side of his shotgun barrel.

"Sorry, Tat: that sounded like you were giving me an order..."

Fionnghal raced up beside Asher and Brady. She ground to a halt as she noticed Tatu blocking the path.

"Fancy meeting you here, Tat," she growled.

"There's nothing for you here, Fi. This is Eggman's show, and best you remember that..."

Fionnghal exchanged glances with Asher for a brief moment— barely a second—and then she stepped right in front of the cottontail.

"Don't tell me you're looking for a _fight_, Tat?" She sneered.

Tatu's sunken eyes flared; the armadillo stepped back.

Fionnghal gestured at Asher and Brady.

"I can understand if you're embarrassed to lose in front of an audience. It's the kinda thing that might make a more insecure fellow question his masculinity..."

Tatu let loose a deep hiss; he stepped forward boldly.

"My only concern is how many pieces I'll break your spine into!"

"Oh, wow! I guess that _you _have one, too!" Fionnghal briefly looked behind her at Asher, who nodded at the rat. "But I think my spine is pretty safe; as a matter of fact I'm pretty used to pounding armadillo hide..."

Tatu sneered. He lumbered forward, watching the rat warily. Fionnghal carefully detached her sword from her belt and also stepped forward. When the opponents were within a foot of each other Fionnghal gave the armadillo a perfunctory bow, hands demurely held behind her back.

"You know," Tatu whispered. "Last time we did this you were wearing 'less'..."

"I don't have time to undress, I'm afraid..."

The armadillo squared himself into a fighting stance.

"...and this fight isn'timportant, Tat. Sorry to say, I just don't have time for _it_, either..."

Tatu tilted his head.

"Wha—"

Fionnghal brought her paws around, bearing Asher's sawn-off. She pressed the weapon against Tatu's chest, secured with both paws, and fired one barrel. The force of the blast sent Tatu sprawling backward, landing on his rear and coughing. The armadillo drew hoarse breaths as he clutched the armored flesh of his chest.

Asher quickly tossed Fionnghal her sword; Fionnghal simultaneously tossed Asher his sawn-off. The rat motioned back the way she'd come:

"Moles betrayed us," she said. "They were gonna steal the fragment, but the Dame commander killed them both—"

Brady squinted.

"'Them both' who?"

"Amadeo and Davadinia," Fionnghal snapped. She shook her head. "I— it wasn't pretty. Look, just get back up there and find Hardwigg—"

"Is he in on it?" Asher asked.

"I don't think so," Fionnghal said, "but I don't want anybody possibly gunning for my rear right now; you need to keep this path _clear_—"

"And what are you gonna do?" Asher asked.

"Rescue Quinn, neutralize the Dame commander and secure the emerald fragment."

"Oh, of course," Brady rolled his eyes. "And I'll just go upstairs and bring down the Egg Viper with a rock and a pointy stick..."

Tatu's coughing fit began to subside; the armadillo tried to roll over and right himself, wincing as his smoldering flesh touched the rocky ground.

Asher cocked his head at the sloth:

"Brapes, you go with Fi. I'll find Katchy and secure this path with him—"

Fionnghal opened her mouth to protest.

"Ah," Brady raised one claw. "Chief of security, remember? And in an _emergency _I get to choose how best to protect both your oh-so-foolish rear ends. And if you're gonna be foolish, Mistress, you'd do well to bring a friend..."

Fionnghal scowled.

"I'll settle for you," she said.

"Let's _move_," Asher barked.

Tatu got his gargantuan paws on the dirt; he struggled to push himself up, and he made it halfway before Fionnghal raced across him. She stamped all over his back and pressed his face into the dirt with her boots.

That pissed Tatu off.

And then Brady did likewise, lumbering over the armadillo's back and hammering his head down with his feet.

And _that_ knocked Tatu out.

III.

Fionnghal and Brady didn't have to go far to find a bed of chaos stretched before them.

Rounding a corner they ground to a halt; several of Amadeo's personal troopers raced by them, gibbering with panicked grunts. One of them spotted the pair lurking near the rocks, and Fionnghal posed herself in an intimidating combat stance, her sword at the ready. The mole hardly looked at her, though, and he continued his madcap dash through the darkness.

And all before them a howling cacophony swept through the chamber.

"Well, this is a good sign," Brady whispered.

"It's fine, I think," Fionnghal looked to one side. "Listen: the only wolves down here are The Brass and his 'gerunds', right? They're the _leaders _of the Dolamiram Wolf Pack. That's not a lot of practical power, you know? Their plan probably called for a more _discreet _type of action, wouldn't you think?"

"From what you told me the Dame commander wasn't being too 'discreet'." Brady scratched his chin. "Although I gotta say, when the armadillo saw _her_ flying through the air he looked downright gobsmacked. I dunno, it was almost as if—"

"He didn't expect her to do what she did. Or he didn't expect her at _all_; she was dressed like a wolf when she ambushed Amadeo."

Brady grunted.

"Clever girl."

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Not really. The wolves would never go for something like that; it violates their code. That means—"

"_Someone _went off the reservation on this one." Brady nodded. "Okay, but how does that help us, here?"

"The wolves' plan was broken up. They were tailing Amadeo's guard, and when this all went to hell they could reasonably ambush _them_, but now their cover's blown. And again: these wolves are high-value personnel." Fionnghal held up her sword. "I'd like to think they're not too keen to stare down a full-fledged assassin, face-to-face..."

"I'd kinda like to think that, myself," Brady nodded.

The pair crept along the path, sticking to the small outcropping of rocks that littered the wall. Halfway up the spiraling path they began to encounter bodies, all of them mole troopers from Amadeo's guard. Fionnghal made sure to watch her step, but her caution didn't stop her from tripping a laser sensor discreetly wedged against one of the rocky walls.

The rat cursed in her lowspeak.

"Not good," Brady whispered.

"It's fine," she replied.

A shadowy figure loomed over the edge of the tier above them. Immediately upon seeing Fionnghal he went to his earpiece.

"Sir: it's the female rat," he said. "And she is practically unguarded!"

Brady crossed his paws.

"_Hey_!"

The wolf leveled his shotgun at the pair.

"Engaging—"

"Not good," Brady whispered.

Fionnghal slashed _Curtainrod _through the air, building a shimmering barrier between herself, Brady, and the wolf. When the wolf fired his shotgun the buckshot bounced harmlessly off the curtain of light. Fionnghal turned to Brady:

"It's _fine_." she said.

The wolf's earpiece glowed, and the creature tilted its head dramatically.

"_What_? Disengage? Sir: I _have _her!"

Fionnghal's leathery ears twitched a bit; she could barely hear a voice on the spiraled tier above that wolf, barking orders with an ever-increasing severity:

"Negative, Denning: disengage _now_. Rendezvous with us on the upper level—"

The Denning suddenly shifted his position and tried shooting the pair from a different angle; Fionnghal covered this angle with her sword as well, however.

The voice from above shouted even louder:

"_Denning_: withdraw _now_!"

Fionnghal again looked over at Brady:

"See, it's fine."

The Denning looked up to the next tier, and then back down at the rat. He cast his shotgun to one side, and then withdrew a pair of silver swords from his belt.

Fionnghal's eyes widened.

"The opportunity, sir," Denning mumbled. "Forgive me: it's _too great_!"

The wolf leapt from his tier, sliding down the steep slope on his feet.

Brady squared himself.

"Not good," he mumbled.

"No, not good," Fionnghal agreed.

The Denning leapt off the slope as he reached its end, barely sailing over the pair's heads. Before he came down he launched a small black disc from one hand; it landed near Brady, who dodged the projectile only to find it explode with harsh, flashing lights. It was enough to send the sloth stumbling backward in a daze.

And then the Denning came for Fionnghal.

The rat deliberately stepped back and put up another screen between herself and the wolf, but the Denning sidestepped this, twirling his silver swords about manically.

Metal hit metal.

The idea of wielding two swords at once was something of a trade-off, as Fionnghal had learned from her days in the crèche. Paired swords had to be lighter than a longsword, naturally, stubby, and just generally unimpressive. But of course the flip-side is that they were great for building up fighter defense without sacrificing an undue amount of offense. Quick kills weren't the prerogative of dual wielders; instead the strategy was to tip, deflect, or otherwise misdirect the incoming fighter's blade in such a way as to open them up to a strike. Often this was not a fatal strike— nor even very powerful at all— given the low weight and power of a dual wielder's swords. But of course damage accumulates over time, nerves fray, blood oozes, and every slice is another foot in the grave for an opponent. This could take quite a while in any swordfight, which would be measured in seconds otherwise. But while the fighter with a heavy longsword flails away at the dual wielder, struggling for that one decisive, killing blow, the dual wielder bides his time, methodical and patient, watching and waiting for his opponent to commit an error. That's the theory, anyway.

It didn't happen in this case.

Fionnghal just happened to remember these lessons somewhere in the back of her head as the Denning came for her; all of her actions were purely instinctual. And it was instinct that helped her get the Denning's swords raised too high over his head, and it was instinct that made her spin about in an overhead strike as the wolf brought his own swords back down from the sides of his head.

The Denning's silver mask parted down the center.

And everything beyond it did likewise.

It was over in no time at all. Brady still massaged his eyes as he stumbled over to Fionnghal's side. He noticed the body splayed face-down on the ground as he blinked dreamily. Both he and the rat exchanged glances.

"Not good," they muttered in unison.

Suddenly The Brass appeared around the bend, along with two of his three remaining cohorts.

"The Denning... is _dead_," The Brass snarled.

Fionnghal pointed her sword at him:

"That was _his _decision," she said.

The Howling tilted his head at her:

"It was his decision that you _slash_ him?"

"That wasn't exactly his cause of death," Brady noted.

"Oh, no?" The Brass growled.

"If I were a coroner," Brady said, "I'd put the cause of death down as 'suicidal overconfidence'—"

Fionnghal cleared her throat, looking back at Brady with dagger eyes.

"Uh, but then I'm not medically inclined..."

The harsh pump of a shotgun startled the pair; The Hunting leaned over the tier of rock above them, drawing a bead.

"Perhaps," The Brass mused, "we can make Mistress Fionnghal's cause of death a touch more straightforward..."

The wolf raised a paw, and from each point of attack his wolves readied their weapons.

Fionnghal lowered her sword, lips drawn tight. She worked the situation through her brain about a dozen times, and each time came up with the same analysis. She shook her head.

"I'm... I'm sorry about this, Brady," she sighed.

And then the wind rushed out of her lungs as the sloth knocked her straight into the ground. Her jaw nearly broke on the jagged rocks, and it didn't help that she was buried under about 250 pounds of sloth. During this time a gunshot did ring out, but even in her sandwiched state Fionnghal could recognize that it _wasn't _exactly a gunshot: it was a piercing whine, like the rush of some impossible wind, and the sound was altogether more 'explosive' than gunpowder alone.

She could barely peek through a crack in Brady's cover: a small rock beside The Brass smoldered, and a two-inch circular hole ran all the way through it. Everyone's eyes were drawn to the upper tier of rock and a bright white light shining like a star in the sky. As Fionnghal's eyes adjusted she saw that this wasn't a star; it was a boy, holding a glowing slingshot, prepped and ready, drawing a bead on The Brass' head. Quinn's hazel eyes burned.

The boy stammered some words, but the wolves couldn't hear him.

"Lost your voice, little one?" The Brass grumbled.

"I said the next one's coming for your _head_, metal-face!"

The Brass looked amongst his fellow wolves, and then back up at the boy, head tilted. He stood this way for quite some time before gently nodding.

"I believe you, whelp..."

"Weapons _down_," Quinn barked.

"No," The Brass answered.

Quinn snarled.

"_I said do it_!"

The Brass chuckled.

"It seems the little cub does have a voice, doesn't he?" He looked up at Quinn. "We will not relinquish our weapons, little one, but we will withdraw. Is that fair enough?"

Quinn considered this; eventually he nodded.

"Very well..." The Brass motioned for all his remaining wolves to follow him. He looked back at Fionnghal, still wedged firmly beneath Brady's body. "Lucky, aren't we, Mistress? The thing about 'luck', however, is that it doesn't last long." He pointed at her sternly. "Your tribe is marked with the color of any simple enemy to us. But consider yourself marked with the stink of _prey_, Mistress. We willsettle this another day..."

The wolves departed, Quinn eyeing them all the while, and he kept his vigil from above the rocks even after they disappeared up a tunnel.

Brady looked up at the boy.

"Wonder where he got a toy like _that_?"

"I don't think I have to wonder," Fionnghal managed to speak from underneath the sloth's body. "And, uh, would you mind, Brady?"

"Oh, right!" The sloth got up, and then helped Fionnghal to her feet.

"Nice move," she muttered. "I guess..."

Brady shrugged.

"Eh, instinct, you know?"

Fionnghal looked down at the body of The Denning.

"Yeah, I know something about that..."

The rat began walking up the spiral path to join Quinn.

"Seriously," she said, "you're so gosh-darn heroic that I should recommend you for a special assignment or two."

"Oh, like what?"

Fionnghal massaged her shoulder, wincing.

"First would be a _diet_..."

IV.

As soon as Fionnghal and Brady reached Quinn's tier the trio began sprinting back up to the emerald fragment.

"It was unstable," Quinn explained as he ran. "Sonic sent Catchie and me away; he's trying to keep it all intact—"

"And just where the heck is Catchie?" Brady asked.

"She's a little sick, or injured, I think. She took me back through the upper tunnel a ways, but then she had to stop. She fell asleep, actually, but she was breathing and everything. I don't think she was still bleeding, either."

Fionnghal looked down at the boy with sour eyes:

"And how did you get from the upper tunnels down here, exactly?"

Quinn looked away, shrugging:

"I, uh, thought you all could still use some help—"

"And what are you doing with that ridiculous hand cannon?"

"I think he's doing _awesome _with it, that's what," Brady rather unhelpfully interjected. "Wish I could've seen the look on The Brass' face when you drilled that rock beside him. Oh, my!"

"Sonic gave it to me," Quinn explained. "He thought it might come in handy."

"He was right about that!" Brady said.

"Sonic and I are gonna have a little talk," Fionnghal groused.

Brady looked down at the boy:

"So, I'm thinking something short and sweet for a name: descriptive yet threatening."

"Name?" Quinn asked.

"Brady!" Fionnghal hissed.

"Yeah: it's a QED weapon. It's _gotta _have a name. Practically the law. Hmmm. How about _Majh'nglas_, or something like that?"

"Brapes," Fionnghal barked.

"'_Majh'nglas_'?" Quinn squinted.

"Yeah. Excuse the pronunciation. Wolf lowspeak. It means 'voice of the cub'. Like what The Brass was talking about? Oh yeah: I think that'sappropriate—"

Fionnghal grabbed Brady's collar even as they ran, drawing his face close to hers:

"_Don't _encourage him!" She growled. "Gods: if we could just get this emerald under wraps, at least this whole mess won't be for nothing..."

Thunder rumbled overhead. Of course it wasn't thunder, but rather the booming echoes of rock striking rock. Fionnghal immediately pulled herself back against the cavern wall, yanking Brady and Quinn to her side. The rumble grew louder, and within seconds there was an impossible shower of rock, everything from massive boulders to a thin sheet of rock dust, sparkling like a starry sky against the light of their glowsticks. Everything fell straight down, tumbling into the endless chasm of _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_.

Fionnghal gasped as a meters-wide chunk of glowing green glass caught her eye; the emerald fragment seemed to tumble in slow-motion, delicately spiraling about with the rest of the rubble, and both Brady and Quinn had to hold the rat back as she leaned forward, yelling, watching helplessly as the massive chunk of emerald skirted her very whiskers, almost as if trying to plant a delicate, ethereal kiss.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. She didn't have the heart to watch the fragment plummet downward, streaking into the infinite blackness below. Brady and Quinn did, and the pair each got to their knees, faces furrowed, unable even to speak.

Fionnghal _was _able to speak, and she was about to unleash a whole string of curses. Instead her head suddenly came up and she gasped:

"_Sonic_!"

V.

The bridge at the top of the path was gone, completely crumbled and leaving a twenty meter gap between rocky outcroppings. Dust billowed freely, and Fionnghal wandered through it, coughing, feeling about with her paws.

"Sonic?" She called. "Hey: _Sonic_!"

"_What_?"

The hedgehog sat at the edge of the ruined bridge, legs dangling over the abyss. Fionnghal approached him quickly, at first with relief on her face, but then she took stock of the ruined bridge and again her face turned sour.

"We failed." She sat down beside him.

"Yeah," Sonic muttered. "You did."

"What happened?"

Sonic shrugged.

"It was... made unstable."

The rat looked down at her boots, teeth on edge. She got up, snarling, and stormed off, shaking her head.

"'Unstable'. Yeah. Why not, huh? This whole damned _situation _wasn't any different, was it?" She kicked a rock in anger, and it bounced against a nearby stalagmite. Huddled up at the base of that stalagmite, wrists and ankles bound with twine, was the unconscious Dame commander. Bellesailes lay in the fetal position, her back to Fionnghal.

The rat narrowed her eyes. She produced a serrated knife from her belt and took a few steps toward the trussed damselfly.

"You can't have her, Pew." Sonic didn't turn around. He merely shook his head. "I caught her, and she's mine."

Fionnghal's teeth nibbled her lower lip as she surveyed the helpless creature beneath her.

"Put it away," Sonic growled. "She'd only be replaced, anyway..."

The rat shook her head. She sheathed her blade, spitting on the Dame.

"Just get her out of here, then. I don't care."

"Yeah," Sonic said. "You do." The hedgehog stood up, dusting his braces off, and he approached the rat. "Anyway, there'll be other opportunities to go after fragments, you know. I'll be there to help with those, too, Pew..."

The rat crossed her arms; she nodded slightly, and then walked off, shaking her head.

Sonic narrowed his eyes, looking back at the ruined bridge.

"I'll be there to do whatever is _necessary_..."

VI.

The _Egg Viper _wheeled about through the air, pulling back from the Cake Rim entrance.

"The Elites are withdrawing now," Dasy said. The android's head crackled with sparks as it monitored several consoles at once. "With casualties, apparently. Tatu found his own way out—"

"And _Bellesailes_?"

Eggman stood with his back to the operation room window, hands folded neatly behind him. Before him an unmasked wolf stood, draped in a blanket, flanked by his compatriots. The wolf bore a very sheepish expression on his face.

Dasy wiggled its head.

"Uncertain. Initial reports have her engaged in combat; her status is unknown—"

One of Dasy's consoles began beeping erratically, blazing with a yellow light. The android spun about, examining the console closely.

"What is it?" Eggman asked.

"Distress signal," Dasy said. "From a pocket transceiver. Signal is..." the Android's fingers brushed the console keyboard, sparking as they flitted about. Dasy looked up at Eggman: "It is Bellesailes, sir."

Eggman got to his chair at the center of the room and sat down.

"Plot a new course," he barked. "Intercept that signal source—"

"Signal source originates in dangerous terrain," Dasy cautioned. "Uneven canyons to the north, and signal source is below canyon rims; I don't recommend you use the _Viper —_"

"Alternatives?"

"Set up camp at rim; a rappelling team could—"

"_Time _required?"

"Approximately 3 hours—"

Eggman shook his head.

"Plot the course, get the _Viper _in there, and _watch _the walls, alright?"

Dasy shrugged— that oh-so artificial and unconvincing gesture— and went to work. Soon the _Egg Viper _was barreling over the desert terrain, and it sunk down into the jagged canyons behind Cake Rim. Soon the vessel was right on top of the signal, and it came to a small outcropping of rock along the canyon wall. Dasy scanned the seemingly vacant area.

"Empty," Eggman mused.

"No," Dasy replied. "Pocket transceiver is present."

"Then where is—"

Alarms pealed throughout the command center; Dasy warned of an incoming projectile, and before anyone could react the entire glass wall covering the bridge exploded violently. Eggman dove for cover behind his chair. Glass scattered everywhere as the turbulent air outside swirled through the bridge. When everything cleared Eggman peeked around the corner of his chair.

And then he immediately got to his feet and moved out into the open.

Sonic stood balanced perfectly on the rim of the ruined window. Sprawled before him, still bound, and still unconscious, Bellesailes groaned dreamily. The hedgehog rolled her forward with one foot, flipping her end over end, until she was a few feet from Eggman, who stood stock-still with crossed arms.

The armed wolves behind Eggman went for their weapons, but Eggman held up a stern hand. He flitted his fingers, indicating they back off. The wolves did so, retreating all the way to the rear of the room.

Sonic turned his back on the man, walking a few feet away, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he turned and got a running start. He kicked Bellesailes right in her belly, causing a pained squeal from the groggy Dame.

"Leash... your... _pets_!" Sonic hissed. "Next one I might not throw back!"

Again the hedgehog turned, moving for the busted window. Eggman stepped forward.

"Amazing, that violence in you..."

Sonic looked back at the man.

"That's the law of the tribes, isn't it?"

Eggman looked down at Bellesailes, and then back at Sonic. He nodded, removing his dark eyeglass. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and his gnarled black eyes blinked uncomfortably in the light.

"It wasn't alwa—"

"Yes it was. It _always _was. And that reminds me," Sonic muttered. "The fragment's history. It's gone. _Nobody _gets it, so you take your personnel out of here, now."

Eggman nodded again.

"You're looking well, by the way—"

"Anything _else_?" Sonic faced the busted window, staring at the canyon walls stretched before him.

Eggman considered the hedgehog for a moment; the man crossed his arms, shaking his head.

"No," his whispered. "Nothing but history, I guess..."

"Then I'm _gone_."

He got a running start, leaping through the bridge window, and when he hit the sloping canyon walls his QEDs kicked into gear. Sonic disappeared along the canyon rim like a shooting star.

VII.

Fionnghal wandered along the tunnel, massaging a few sore muscles. She walked past a small antechamber; the place where Amadeo's surviving troopers had brought the casualties back for temporary storage.

She walked through the chamber hesitantly, moving past a row of bodies bundled under thick black sheets. She stopped at the last of these; a sheet with a prominent bump beneath it. Fionnghal knelt down, shaking her head.

"'It's... so important that we... think about our future... in everything we do'."

"Words to live by?"

Fionnghal leapt up; Sonic sat in the shadows of the chamber. The hedgehog's narrow eyes seemed to bleed venom.

"Something Davidinia told me," Fionnghal said.

"Bet that phrase bothers you, now."

"It bothered me enough at the time," Fionnghal said. "Being who I am— or _what _I am, I guess— I don't really put much thought into the future. Most of my life I've spent more time thinking about how to _end _other animals' futures. It's much easier to destroy than it is to build, I guess." Fionnghal shook her head.

"Do you blame Amadeo and Davidinia for what happened, today?"

Fionnghal stared at the ground. She shook her head slowly.

"No," she answered. "They were—"

"That's good," Sonic got up. "Because you _shouldn't _blame them." The hedgehog turned and stalked off.

At first Fionnghal scowled angrily, but then her brow ticked. She stepped forward:

"Sonic! This wasn't _your _fault, either—"

"The hell it wasn't," he snarled.

Fionnghal got behind him, gripping one shoulder.

"These moles made their choices. So did we, and so did the Delts. You can't—"

Sonic spun about, forcing the rat's paw off his shoulder. His eyes blazed like coals.

"I saw _three groups _here, all of them living the law of the tribes. That's all there is, Pew! And Gods: I actually thought I could..." he balled his fists and his eyes quivered. He quickly faced away from the rat. "No: it's just a tribal thing, isn't it? And that makes it _twice _that I've been proven wrong." He walked off even faster. "And there damn well won't be a _third _time..."

Fionnghal lingered in the cavern, alone, for some time. Eventually she moved up into the city proper. The citizens of Cake Rim were in a panic, shocked as news of their leaders' deaths spread. Fionnghal found Asher and Brady with Hardwigg at one of their official buildings, and it was a chore working past the crowd. She reached them in a small second-floor room, warmed by a bright electric lamp. The room was flanked with narrow stone windows and ringed with nondescript benches.

Hardwigg paced before a window, gazing out at the disordered lanes below them.

"You should know: it was never _my _intention to betray you—"

"We know," Asher nodded, lounging on a bench and toying with a shotgun shell.

Hardwigg looked back at the cottontail:

"And, as for our 'issues'? Will your tribe be coming after us for what we've done?"

Asher shook his head.

"That was a bluff," he coldly declared. "We've got no resources to be a threat to Cake Rim. We— _I_, was lying. Our crew is barely holding together as it is..."

Hardwigg stared at the floor; he scoffed bitterly, and then smiled, shaking his head.

"What on earth do I tell _them_?" He motioned out the window. "How do you get a tribe to endure such a shock?"

"Be strong for them, I suppose," Fionnghal said. "We set the examples, for better or worse. Uh, now that Amadeo and Davidinia are... gone, does that mean _you_—"

"No: it'll be Pére," Hardwigg shook his head. "It's to him, next. Of course, until he matures..." Hardwigg again chuckled. He looked up at the rat and cottontail, and eventually he nodded. "Until then _I'll_ be strong."

Asher got up off the bench and approached the mole.

"So, how are 'we'? I mean, on a scale from 'enemy' to 'friend'..."

Hardwigg considered the cottontail.

"In between, I suppose. Like anything else in this world, right?"

"You'll have to be a part of the world for a little longer, I guess," Fionnghal said. "_Decent _or not..."

Hardwigg turned and looked out the window.

"Perhaps we don't even know the meaning of that word, anymore." He shook his head. "For now, we'll try to endure. And who knows? Maybe one day we'll have the power to breach _Snaephaelzh Jo'ehkuelh_ itself. I'm sure that fragment won't stay buried forever..."

Asher nodded approvingly. Fionnghal nodded respectfully, and then moved to leave the room. She passed Brady, lounging on one of the stone benches in something of a doze, and the sloth muttered under his breath as she walked by:

"If _this _is how we all behave around the thing, maybe it _should _stay buried..."

He didn't realize Fionnghal heard him, and Fionnghal didn't react, beyond staring down at him, stone faced. After a few seconds the rat left the room, again without an expression.

VIII.

Pére scrambled up the narrow path, careful not to fall down into the deep canyon below. The route was tricky, and he had to hurry: already the sun was a cool and ominous red. He'd only have an hour or two of daylight for his return trip to Cake Rim. All during the trip the little mole had to put up with cawing from canyon buzzards, thousands of them roosting against the walls, but now there was only peaceful silence as he climbed this last stretch.

It was nice, because the buzzards tended to stay away from _Hellinnrödd_.

Finally he crested one last rocky crag and landed on a small, even surface. The little mole waddled over to the entrance of a narrow cave; the maw immediately plunged into blackness, as if the cave itself were immune to the wan afternoon sunlight.

Pére sat atop a twisted chunk of metal. It was some random piece of the ruined human spaceship, and it made an excellent seat.

"I'm back!" Pére sunnily declared. "Oh: and we've had _visitors _today! Raccoon dogs, and a cottontail, a rat and a little kit! Lots of visitors! And I—"

Small vibrations skirted the ground around the cavern; tiny pebbles began dancing about. A strange humming rose up on the wind; it was an almost metallic oscillation. The noise was low, and it was 'gutteral'.

Pére tilted his head.

"Um, no. They wanted to go underground, I think. Something about an emerald, maybe?"

The rumbling began anew.

"Yeah," Pére nodded. "That's right: something _under_ where the ship crashed."

The rumbling grew louder; pebbles began flying about freely. Pére merely stared into the black cavern, as if entranced. His eyes widened.

"Oh! Sure! You want something, _Hellinnrödd_? Lemme help you! What is it you want? What do you need?"

The rumbling slowly died down; for a minute Pére felt a tiny wave of nausea fall over him, and a piercing pain in his head, as if an icepick were wedge up against his skull. It lasted only a moment, and after this the little mole again looked to the empty cavern.

Only now it appeared different.

A cold green light swirled from the deep recess of the cavern. It ebbed and flowed, like a standing pool of water. Pére got off his seat and slowly walked forward.

"You can tell me,_ Hellinnrödd_: what is it you want?"

"_M..._"

Pére leaned forward, expectant.

"Yes?"

"_Mmmm-yyyyy..._"

The little mole nodded.

"_Yes?_"

"_My..."_

A cold silence muffled the air.

And then it was gone.

"_**RAINBOOOOOOOOW!**_"

Green fire exploded from the cavern maw. It burst out in all directions, drenching everything in a horrid light. When it cleared the cavern maw was again black, and again it was empty.

And the small ledge before it was empty, too.


	17. Loose Ends

"Loose Ends"

I.

Katchy parted the tent flap with one paw, holding his sister's waist with the other.

"Egh! Watch it, will you?" She hissed. "Not so rough..."

The pair awkwardly shuffled into their tent. It was surprisingly spacious, the kind of tent normally used to house two or even three whole families of civilians in the sprawling mess that was the Thallomoor camp. The siblings got this comparative luxury on account of taking up arms for Asher and Fionnghal, and they got it to themselves because nobody in the camp was keen on sharing a tent with a pair of canines.

So, yeah: that kind of thing sometimes worked out for the best.

Katchy helped his sister sit down on a crate at the tent's center. She was wrapped in a thick towel, and her fur still dripped with water from the Northern aquifer springs. Katchy went back over to the tent flap to close it. His sister shivered beneath her towel.

"Don't shake," he warned her. "You'll get water all over my cot..."

The raccoon dog's voice trailed off when he turned around: the flare of a match pierced the dark corner of the tent. The silhouette of a bulbous toad, pipe wedged between fat lips, sat upon one of the sibling's cots.

Catchie noticed her brother's surprise and turned around to face Thadesch. The toad put out his match, slowing getting to his feet.

"Good morning, my dear raccoon dogs."

"Spymaster," Catchie stammered. "I'm indecent—"

"That remains to be seen," Thadesch wagged a flabby finger.

"Uh, wh— what can we do for you?" Katchy stepped in front of the tent entrance. "We just got back from the spring..."

"Ah, yes," Thadesch wandered around Catchie, and she tightened the towel around herself as the toad slowly ambled up behind her. "I'd heard that your poor sister got scuffed up during the last mission."

She shook her head:

"I'm fine—"

"Oh, apparently," Thadesch nodded. "After all, you never let Miles once examine you during the trip back. Isn't that right? And you haven't been to the medical station since..."

"What's your point?" Katchy stepped between the toad and his sister. "She told you that she's fine."

Thadesch suddenly held up a bundle of clothes: it was the vest and shirt worn by Catchie at Cake Rim. The underside of the vest was nothing but a crusty mess of dried blood.

"Should she be? Come here: look at this neat little hole in the vest. Do you see it? Now I've seen this kind of thing before, believe me. It's the kind of thing you seldom forget, I'm sure. Now, in my professional opinion, I'd say that your sister's chest was penetrated with a bladed weapon. Nothing too fancy: it probably only sank halfway into her lung. No harm done, I guess..."

The siblings exchanged glances; neither made eye contact with the toad.

"But, you see, there's only one problem. And that problem is that any sentence that contains the words 'blade', 'penetration' and 'lung' usually ends with a body in a pine box, doesn't it?" The toad tapped Katchy's chest. "And then there's you: I heard a funny story about your trip to meet the _Egg Viper _outside Dolamiram. For some reason— maybe just a hallucination from all the pressure, she thought— Mistress Fionnghal could've sworn you took a chunk of shrapnel to your torso. A chunk big enough that it _should've_ ripped your insides out..."

The toad paused. He genteelly pulled the pipe from his lips and looked down at Catchie:

"Not being too graphic, am I, my dear?"

The raccoon dog looked away from him.

"Oh, my. Looks like the toad's got your tongue..." he walked over to her brother. "What about you, eh?"

Katchy stared down at the ground.

"I see," Thadesch scratched his chin. He looked back at Catchie, again placing the pipe between his lips. "Maybe you'd be more comfortable telling your story to Asher and Fionnghal—"

Thadesch hardly reacted as Katchy pressed his shortened rifle barrel against the toad's neck. The toad merely looked over at the raccoon dog's cold, determined face with a bored glint in his eyes. For his part, Katchy's brown eyes trembled like gelatin sheets.

"I've already arranged a meeting with Mistress Fionnghal," he warned, "and I told her that it involves a 'grave matter' of importance having to do with the two of you." Thadesch looked down at Catchie, still sitting on the trunk. "Now that could mean anything, really: maybe I've finally vetted both of your pasts, and thus you're fully cleared for service. _Or _maybe I discovered that you're both sleeper agents from Dolamiram—"

"If you're _dead_, you don't say anything." Katchy growled.

"_Katchy_," his sister sighed.

Thadesch nodded.

"That's true," he admitted. "I can't. Now, the thing to remember about our Mistress is that she's a cagey rat, and she tends to consider the worst in any give situation. Helps explain why she's still alive, I suppose. So, my dear doggies, think on the fact that if I turn up dead, or missing or... whatever, I think your magic-sword wielding Mistress will be smart enough to put two-and-two together. Now here's something I genuinely don't know: could either of you survive being _decapitated_?" He shrugged. "If so, well, good luck..."

Catchie stared down at her bare feet, her brow quivering. She looked up at her brother and shook her head. Her brother slowly lowered his weapon.

"We're _not_ spies," Catchie mumbled.

"I know that," Thadesch said. "Nothing like that would explain your 'abilities'."

"And we don't want to hurt anyone."

"Glad to hear it," the toad sounded thoroughly unimpressed. "Now bear in mind, I don't necessarily want to reveal the two of you as lying snakes, either. Again: not _necessarily_..."

"Why not?"

"Because I deal in knowledge," Thadesch said. "Mistress doesn't know half of what I know. She _knows _she doesn't know half of what I know. It's one of those things she lets side, mostly because she trusts my judgment to tell her what she _needs _to know. Like any good spymaster, though, I try to hold on to as much extra information as I can. Better for me as a deal broker, and generally safer for everyone else involved. So, as for you two—"

"Blackmail?" Katchy growled. "What: are you picking on the dirty doggies for your amusement—"

"Spare me," Thadesch smirked. "I'm not even remotely a speciesist; I'm a realist. And I'm putting your oversized testicle to the fire because you're both hiding something, _not_ because you're both canines."

"Then what are you going to tell the Mistress?" She asked.

Thadesch wandered to one of the sibling's cots and sat down. He crossed his stubby legs and exhaled a lungful of smoke:

"That depends entirely on what _you_ tell me right now," he said.

Katchy got down on his haunches; he didn't move away from the tent flap.

"What do you want to know?" He asked.

The toad slowly looked between both raccoon dogs. His eyes finally settled on Catchie:

"It was interesting enough when we found out that we had a pair of canines who weren't affected by the SICR virus. Wolves or not, your genetic makeup is close enough. You should be sick, I believe. And not only that: we have a pair of seemingly _immortal_ canines. That's a bit much." He spread his hands. "Anyway, you both have my attention."

"We're _not _immortal," Catchie mumbled.

The raccoon dogs exchanged glances. Eventually Catchie looked over at the Toad.

"Listen: have you ever heard of a fox..."

"_Several_, actually."

"...named Dr. James Prower?"

The toad's rubbery eye folds twitched. He leaned forward, grunting with effort:

"You now have my _undivided_ attention," he whispered.

II.

She awoke retching, fire brimming along her throat.

"The antibiotics," Eggman said. "They sicken you. Do _not _vomit them up..."

The man sat in a drab chair, silhouetted by the flames of a small hearth fire which blazed inside a wide tubular chamber built into the room's wall. He faced away from Bellesailes, who lay in a heap on her own bed. The room was very small, barely able to support a narrow fold-out cot and that chair, along with a shelf bearing personal effects. One small window graced the wall near Bellesailes' head, and black clouds raced across a starless sky.

The Dame stared at the back of Eggman's head; her leathery lips trembled, but her eyes were strong.

"Am I angry?" He asked. "Well, I'm not surprised. After all: you're a sentimentalist, aren't you?"

The man raised a finger, beckoning.

Slowly Bellesailes got out of bed; she hadn't the strength to walk, so she crawled on the floor. She approached the chair hesitantly, trying her best not to pout.

"Respectfully, what I am is _practical_," she countered.

Eggman shook his head. He pointed to the Dame's left hand, girded in bandages, and motioned for her to remove them. She did so, wincing all the while, with the brittle nooks of her tough face folded in pain. She revealed her wounded palm, its center now plugged with some kind of pale, flesh-like gunk. Eggman produced a small wand and activated it. Its tip pulsed with throbbing red hues, like a live coal. Eggman took the Dame's hand. He gently ran the device along the gunk, smoothing out imperfections and hardening the paste.

"Practical? No, I don't think so," Eggman spoke as he worked. "When we first constructed quarters here we had to plan for all our 'creature comforts': hard surfaces for Tatu's room, and certain medical provisions for my— well, for my wing of the ship." He looked at the Dame, his gnarled eyes penetrating. "When it came time to house our Dame Commander you can imagine my surprise when I learned that she requested a working _hearth_ in her chamber—"

"You know my species needs that kind of thing," she said. "That's biology, not sentiment. I can't keep my body warm when I sleep—"

Eggman held up a finger.

"Ah: you need 'that kind of _thing_'," he cooed. "Just so. Electric space heaters, radiating simple hot air, would have been much more efficient. Practical, too..."

Bellesailes looked away from the man, her teeth set together.

"Something about an open flame," Eggman mused. He stared into the roaring fire before them. "It's primal. Seems _alive_, even, despite its lifelessness. It makes one feel primal, too, staring into its flickering depths. Makes _them_ feel alive..."

Eggman produced a different tool, and he set to work adjusting the narrow metal bands surrounding Bellesailes' wrist. The tip of this new device sparked in a series of organized, measured pulses: a sterile and cold lightshow. The Dame looked away as Eggman soldered up her damaged exoskeleton.

"A space heater," he said, "would operate invisibly. It would be so unobtrusive, so very efficient, and so... very... _lifeless_."

He released the Dame's hand and began putting away his tools.

"You're not circuits and wires, Bellesailes," he said. "You're a bundle of passions and hot blood, despite the sterility you project. And, yes, that's not sentimentality: it's really just biology..."

Eggman rose; the Dame looked up at him as he stood, but she did not get to her feet. The man crossed his arms, turning his back on her.

"So, am I angry?" He shrugged. "_Yes_. I am." The man again faced the Dame. "But I'm not unsympathetic."

"What is to become of me, then?" She asked.

"You've been removed as the commander of the Dames," Eggman said. "Tatu saw to that. He had no choice."

"I understand." She looked down at the carpeted floor. "Where is Tatu, now?"

"He escaped the mole settlement, but is currently on an intelligence mission near the Unica Plains. He was vague on the particulars."

"I see."

"He is rather _too often _vague on the particulars of his operations." The man shook his head. "In any event, you're to be a junior officer, now. Of a particularly low rank, I believe."

Again the Dame nodded.

"I'll vacate these quarters by nightfall."

Eggman turned to leave.

"And I am sorry," Bellesailes whispered.

"For what, exactly?"

"Betraying your trust."

The man stopped at the door.

"From what I understand the Dames will now hold an open tournament amongst all their officers in order to fill the role of Commander. Some kind of hand-to-hand combat. Is that right?"

The Dame nodded.

"Yes," she said.

She looked up when the pause between them stretched to an uncomfortable length.

"Interesting," he mused. "And, of course, _any _officer may compete, isn't that right?"

Bellesailes got to her knees, looking up at the man curious eyes.

"Would you think... that _I_ should compete?"

Eggman looked back at her over his shoulder:

"I would think so. Yes."

The Dame's throat twitched. She nodded.

"I'll be back aboard the _Viper _within a few days, then."

"And more the wiser, I'm sure," Eggman said. "Just make it fast, if you please..."

"One more thing," Bellesailes carefully got to her feet. "A question."

"_Yes_?"

"I was able to examine the emerald fragment before..." she looked to one side.

"Before you were humiliatingly dropped like a sack of flour?" Eggman grumbled.

The Dame flashed the briefest sardonic glare, but then she nodded.

"The bridge holding the fragment was damaged _before_ I fought the hedgehog. I was able to examine the area, and there were many deep, even marks all around the fragment."

"Marks? Do we have a hypothesis for their origin?"

Bellesailes looked to the corner of the room; the twisted remains of her metal wings lay propped on a table. She motioned to them with her head:

"Consistent with _that_," she said. "And Sonic hedgehog was alone with the fragment for some time before my arrival..."

Eggman looked down at the floor; he absently tousled his spindly moustache.

"My question is this, sir: is there any reason why the hedgehog would deliberately sabotage the bridge like that?"

Eggman said nothing.

"Why would Sonic hedgehog condemn that fragment to the depths?"

"It's...'_history_'," Eggman grumbled.

"What?"

The man shook his head, moving through the door:

"Sonic's agenda... is not what I thought it was. But I think it's... it's what I should have _expected_."

He left the Dame very confused, but he refused to say more on the matter.

III.

Bumps in the road.

That was all he could see through the thick, cloying fog. It seemed to gravitate to his face, swarming right at him with some vague intelligence, deliberately clouding his eyes.

But still he walked.

"Quick... quick..."

He turned his head, ears twitching. He stumbled over the bumps in the road. They became more frequent, and more obtrusive.

But still he walked.

Shadows met him in the darkness, and echoing voices hammered his ears. They pierced his brain like iron nails. There were so many speakers, and so many words:

"You see... there is a way..."

"...trust us to..."

"...and when it's agreed..."

"...to avoid the possibility of..."

"...we _can _make it work..."

His feet slid to a halt. That last one: that last voice. He _knew_ that voice...

Silence. Dead. Cold.

"...we _can _make it work..."

He stumbled back slowly, feet tripping over bumps in the road as he shook his head.

"...we _can_—"

His breaths quicken, his heart races, and his head swims.

And then came the panic.

He fell over the bumps, landing on his face, and then he struggled to his elbows. With his head not an inch from the ground he finally saw what those bumps were.

He saw _who _those bumps were.

One of them turned its head, looking up at him, looking right _at _him, despite her condition. Fur parted around a conical face; Davidinia's dead eyes bled a white froth. Her lips moved once, soundless, and then again, slowly. They sounded out a single word:

"_Quick_..."

The shadows swarmed him.

"...there is a way..."

"...trust us to..."

"...and when it's agreed..."

"...to avoid the possibility of..."

"...we _can _make it work..."

Sonic leapt up, squeezing his ears shut.

"No: _no_! That isn't... it _isn't_ possible! I... I see that now, I do! It isn't possible! I understand. Now I understand! I was wrong, and I know that now. Alright? _Alright_?"

Warm hands met his shoulders; a breath ruffled his quills from behind.

"_Sonic_..."

He spun about.

And then time stood still.

The pink hedgehog stared into his eyes. She smiled, but very sadly. The girl put one finger to Sonic's temple, tapping it ever so gently, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She tapped his skull more forcefully.

"Why weren't you _quick _enough?"

Sonic opened his mouth.

And then, all around them, that hideous light flared.

IV.

He woke with a gentle start. Nothing dramatic: just a brief spasm of the muscles, and then a flip of the eyes. The first thing he noticed was the pillow, and then the raised cot beneath it. What he _didn't _notice was the sedate sound of dripping water, echoing in his cozy little cavern. Instead he heard the sounds of the forest at dawn brimming outside a tent. And instead of the fungal scent of moldy rock he smelled canvas and dirt.

A female voice sounded from the other side of the tent.

"Ah! And so the Banshee wakes! A miraculous thing, no doubt!"

Sarcasm this early in the morning was simply too cruel.

Sonic got to his elbows, looking about the tent. A chaffinch busied herself in one corner, hanging laundry to dry.

"What am I doing here?" he muttered.

"A question most _excellently _put," Fringe grumbled. "And it is one I asked myself when I realized that I was displaced from my own bed last night! That was when you showed up here, and in a most _uncogent _ state!"

"'Uncogent'?" Sonic rubbed his temples; his head felt like a bag of rocks. He blinked, and then shook his head. "That... that was nothing. I was just, uh, looking for the rat." He looked up at the chaffinch. "And this isn't yourbed. This isn't even your _tent_!"

Fringe chortled, her tattooed beak wiggling with mirth:

"Your rat is indebted," she answered. "And a marvelous chaffinch like myself cannot afford to charge too lightly for her services!"

"Ah, so you're the mercenary—"

"An ugly word, Banshee."

"Kind of an ugly concept, Fringe—"

"_Fringelline_ Sheldapple Spiza-Pinson Vinkholler—"

"Well, at least you're a _pretty_ birdie..."

His head already felt like a squeezed rubber ball. Sonic tried to guess the best way to shut the polly up, and it seems he was right on the mark; Fringe's beak parted, and she looked to one side, her beady eyes mischievous and triumphant.

"Well, at least the _obvious_ does not elude the Banshee..." The chaffinch finished hanging up her laundry. "As for Mistress Fionnghal: she beds down with that hideous human juvenile, I believe."

"_There's _a sentence that could be taken out of context." Sonic slowly got off the cot. "Well, where is she now?"

Fringe shrugged.

"I am certain I couldn't even guess..."

Sonic moved off for the tent exit, but Fringe called after him:

"Please to be removing your refuse, Banshee!"

"Huh?" Sonic looked back at the bird as he walked, and he nearly tripped over an empty earthenware jug. He considered the vessel, and again began massaging his temple.

"Ah, yeah," he muttered. "Of course..."

Sonic ditched the bottle and journeyed to Asher's tent; he found the cottontail with Brady, droning on about some kind of internal security matter. The hedgehog plopped down on a seat across from the pair, and Brady awkwardly slowed his speech as they took in the sight. Eventually Asher motioned for Brady to stop speaking.

"Uh, Sonic?" Asher said. "Do you mind? _Confidential_ meeting, here—"

"Spare me," Sonic growled, still rubbing his head. "Where's Pew, anyway?"

"Fi's in the Momus, inking out that obscene little deal with the devil," Asher growled.

"She went alone?"

"Against my advice," Asher said.

"Think it was a bad idea?" Brady asked. "If you don't mind me asking: did you happen to have any run-ins with The Traitor and her brigands during your time in the Thallomoor?"

"A few," Sonic mumbled. "But Perle's crew generally stays on their side of the fence." He shook his head. "Whatever. Pew'll be fine; she's a big girl, after all—"

"I wouldn't trust that fiendish rodent any further that I could throw her!" Asher grumbled.

Sonic leaned back in the seat, resting one gloved hand over his eyes.

"Ah. And which one is that, exactly?"

Cheap shot. But still: it made him smile.

V.

Fionnghal wandered along the row of sacks, casually pulling several of them open with one boot to examine the contents. Most appeared to be what they should have been: reams of bundled herbs and vials of concentrated plant extract.

"It's all there," Ocotillo warbled. The kangaroo rat hopped up to Fionnghal's side. His eyes gleamed in the cloying shadows of the woods that smothered them. "You really should trust the boss, li'l missy dingy." He waved a rolled up scrap of paper before her icy eyes. "She doesn't ever lie, you know..."

Fionnghal snatched the parchment out of the air, glowering at him.

"Sure as I've never taken a life," she said. "And watch your mouth. Your boss is dirtier than _I _could ever hope to be."

Ocotillo chucked. He rapped his fist against one of three metal containers behind him.

"Takes a dirty rat to know another, huh? Ah, come one: we're all rodents here, aren't we? And, really, we all do what we have to in order to survive, don't we? Anyway, that map there lists the best harvesting grounds around here. The ones we're _willing _to share with you, of course..."

"Then we're done here." Fionnghal immediately began bundling up the sacks and tying them together.

"Well, not _quite_," the kangaroo rat said.

She looked back at him.

"What other business you got?"

Ocotillo shook his head.

"Me? Oh, none. But the boss wanted a brief 'audience' with whoever came along to make the deal with us. You know: just a nice, quick little chat—"

"_Pass_." Fionnghal returned to bundling the sacks. She only stopped when she heard bullets chambered into rifles.

A warthog and a lemur emerged from the thick forest around them. The pair were camouflaged, and quite nicely, too. Even the warthog's tusks were banded in colored paint.

Fionnghal looked back at Ocotillo.

"Trust your boss, huh?"

"Like I said: just a brief audience." The kangaroo rat held up a coiled length of rope. "And _this_ is the price of admission, I'm afraid..."

The rat's eyes narrowed.

"Treat all your 'guests' like this, do you?"

Ocotillo shook his head, whipping the rope to and fro.

"Actually we were only ordered to use this if it was _you _that made the delivery. So, you see..."

Fionnghal looked back at the guns, and then Ocotillo. Her eyes burned, but she grunted submissively.

"We all do what we have to in order to survive, don't we?"

She turned away from Ocotillo, crossing her wrists behind her back.

The warthog and lemur escorted Ocotillo and Fionnghal for a brief time, right up until they reached a particularly large and gnarled old-growth tree. The thing looked like a vast network of inverted tree roots, stretching into the dark expanse of the Momus like fingers grasping in vain for a taste of daylight. The escort left them here, and Ocotillo led the rat up a narrow catwalk of massive roots spiraling all around the trunk.

"Sun never shines here," Ocotillo noted. "If you were wondering. And the plants, well, they do what they can to survive, too. Some of them are known to have some _very _interesting diets, too." He leaned over near the rat's head, delicately 'walking' his fingers over her shoulder as he snickered. "Some of 'em have a wicked taste for flesh, of all things. Yeah: they have a real tooth for all the sweet little things..."

The rat ignored him. She walking in silence, working on maintaining balance with her wrists tied behind her back. After a few seconds the kangaroo rat chuckled harder, his voice echoing through the mire.

"Well, that's just fine. The plants here can make do with _sour _things, too..."

"Tell me, Ocotillo: you got a history of visual problems?"

The kangaroo rat perched his lips.

"Well, no. Not that I—"

The head-butt was truly vicious. Uncalled for, in all honesty. She followed it up with a leaping roundhouse kick, and then she fell onto the kangaroo rat's body, wrapping her legs around his neck as he struggled, face-down, desperate to get up. But the pressure from her thighs soon took its toll, and Fionnghal didn't release the pressure until Ocotillo's struggles ceased. She chose to let up _before_ his pulse did the same.

"You'll likely have a few problems, now," she muttered.

Fionnghal squatted over Ocotillo's body and rummaged through his pockets with her bound paws until she found a small serrated knife. She cut her bonds, and then looked up the tree's path: a giant knoll delved into the side of the tree at the path's end, and a faint sliver of light escaped the hole.

Fionnghal narrowed her eyes.

The knoll quickly opened up into a large chamber: the center of this massive tree was largely hollow. Thousands of rays of light danced about here, beaming off spindly threads of moss gracing the uneven walls of the trunk. They were all actually _glowing_: a faint and ghostly blue.

Perle Rocciaforte sat with her legs crossed near the center of this space. Before her a twisted altar of moss and twigs supported a very peculiar thing: it was a very small sliver of green glass. It reflected the ghostly light of the glowing moss with twinkling patters. Perle sat with her head bowed, meditating. She whispered to herself, and continued whispering even as Fionnghal entered the knoll:

"...all terrors yet unknown.

But even as the painted moon reflects my false desire,

The destiny I hold's my own; my tribe..."

The rat's ruby eyes slowly opened. She didn't face the other rat.

Fionnghal scowled, and her face grew puzzled as she noticed the glowing sliver of glass.

"You have an emerald sliver?" She noted. "Do you worship the Emerald Makers?"

Perle slowly got to her feet.

"_Appeal _to them, more like. I didn't always." She turned her head, looking back at Fionnghal. "Don't tell me you never did? I thought they pushed that stuff pretty hard in the crèches..."

"They did," Fionnghal said. "It didn't really take with me, though."

Perle shrugged.

"Pity," she muttered, running a finger over the very small sliver of emerald. "Animals like us need all the help we can get from They Who Bring Order to Chaos, don't we? We're _creatures_ of chaos, after all—"

"Some of us are more 'chaotic' than others," Fionnghal growled.

"True," Perle smiled. "You never tried to speak to the Emerald Makers, then?"

Fionnghal looked to one side, shaking her head.

"Tried? No, it's just that they never spoke to _me_."

"'Speech' can be such a subtle thing, and so many different things. Well, that's what the religious-types would tell us, anyway. You know, after the coup at Sulumac'Dun I was very... angry. You wanna know the truth? I felt lost. So, all the meditation? Well, I found that it helps. And if I'm praying to the Emerald Makers to bring order to my own chaos, or just pissing in the wind, so be it, I guess."

"You're less choosy about your gods than you are your monarchs, aren't you?"

"It calms me. And it's results that matter. More than the path that gets you to those results, anyway."

"I suppose someone like you _would_ believe that." Fionnghal shook her head.

"What? They didn't teach you that little mantra when they had you lopping off animals' heads for the Royal Family?" Perle walked over to a nearby depression in the tree; a standing pool of water resided there, and the rat splashed some on her face. She massaged the water into her discolored eye with gentle strokes, wincing as she did so. "You gotta admit, little one: you _are _a dirty rat."

Fionnghal stepped forward, snarling:

"Well, youmade us _that much_ _dirtier_, didn't you, Traitor? And let's not start with the cutesy pet names, shall we? What'd you wanna see me for, anyway?"

Perle shrugged.

"I wanted to see who exactly Prince Shope would send to make this deal—"

"Asher didn't send me," Fionnghal growled. "I sent _myself_."

"I can see that, now. No doubt because _you_ were the one to hammer out the deal, isn't that right? Had to fight the cottontail, did we?" Perle sneered. "That's remarkable. Guess I was right about you, after all."

"How so?"

"I _thought _you had a pair down there. Could swear I felt 'em when I planted my knee in you. Couldn't tell for sure, at the time. First time I saw you I thought that all I was looking at was a docile, whipped little rat..."

Fionnghal crossed her arms, baring her teeth.

"Well," Perle shrugged. "Bravo for pulling your colleague into shape like that. Cottontails can be _so _insufferable, you know." The white's rat grin spread. "I should know. I worked for them long enough. As a matter of fact, I'll bet you had to bargain with dear little Asher just to strike _this _bargain, didn't you? Now: what could an assassin like you possibly promise him?"

Perle looked down at the knife in Fionnghal's hand, and then back up at Fionnghal.

"I guess I wouldn't make it out of the Momus alive if I gutted you, right now," Fionnghal mused.

Perle absently cracked her neck, never losing that subtle smile.

"You wouldn't make it five seconds the moment you chose to attack, in point of fact."

Fionnghal took the words as a challenge; she must have shown it in her eyes, because Perle cautioned her before she could take the first step:

"Don't do it, my dear," she said. "There was a reason I wanted _you_ brought here bound. If you fight me, I will kill you." The white rat bowed genteelly. "I simply can't die, you see..."

Fionnghal took a step forward.

"Your tribe," Perle declared.

The rat's feet ground to a halt.

"They need you now, I think. Even if I'm bluffing about my abilities— and I'm _not_— consider that. Your pathetic little settlement is still on the rocks, and odds are it won't survive, anyway. Ask yourself: am I really worth it?"

Fionnghal considered Perle's words, but Perle decided to twist the metaphorical knife.

"The answer is: of _course _I am." Her grin spread. "I'm the most hated animal in the history of Sulumac'Dun, and my continued existence is a disgrace to the very planet, itself. Asher can't let what happened all those years ago just slide. The poor little rabbit _did_ watch me stab his daddy, after all. By extension, I suppose _you _can't let it slide, either." Perle scratched her chin. "Tell you what: I'll make a deal with you: if the right time presents itself— say, when your miserable little tribe _isn't _floundering like a drowning victim, and you've got your precious Asher Shope set up all nice and neat where he no doubt believes he belongs— I'll meet you for combat, one-on-one, and to the death. Well? I'll certainly have no more need of you all, at that point. No profit to be made on you if you're no longer desperate. What do you think about that?"

Fionnghal shook her head very slowly, and then threw her knife into the ground.

"What do I think? I think you're not worth a damned thing," she hissed.

Fionnghal turned to leave, storming for the exit.

"For what it's worth," Perle said, "I rather enjoyed our little talk, Fionnghal."

Fionnghal stopped at the knoll entrance; she looked back at the white rat.

"Tell me this, Perle: why _did _you betray the Royal Family? You were... you were so damned _high _in the ranks. You showed u— you showed _some_ animals what it was like to break the rules: to rise above everything. You stood at High King Shope's _side_—"

"And then I pissed it all away, hmm? Became a fallen idol to the adoring masses?" Perle shook her head. "I was never in it to be a hero, and I was never in it for the masses. I was always in it for what _I _thought was important: _my_ desires." The rat's red eyes smoldered as she spoke: "and I couldn't satisfy those desires standing by the High King's side, anymore. So I chose to _act_..."

The rat turned around, again facing the makeshift altar.

"And that's the truth. No word of a lie..."

Suddenly Ocotillo stumbled into the knoll entrance; the kangaroo rat wobbled unsteadily on his feet, waving his flintlock pistol in random directions and grunting erratically.

"Oh," Perle pursed her lips. "You're still alive?" She looked at Fionnghal. "Truly, you must be a terrible assassin, little one."

Fionnghal pointed at the white rat:

"You'll find out _personally_, one of these days!"

Perle crossed her arms, smirking.

"I'm certain..."

Ocotillo gave up on standing upright; the kangaroo rat slumped down against the knoll. Fionnghal strode by, purposefully banging her boots against the wood floor, and it was enough to make Ocotillo shiver as she passed him. Perle called after her:

"But I suppose that a _good _assassin isn't in the habit of leaving any loose ends, are they?"

VI.

Cold candlelight flickered over the splintery wood table. The wind whipped by outside in the darkness, scattering erratic raindrops against the glass. The cramped room stank of vinegary beer and spoiled food— the remnants of a thousand celebrations past— and the tiny hearth barely warmed the frigid air.

Tatu burst into the room, banging the heavy wooden door on its hinges; the sound of bawdy tunes and laughing voices echoed from the hall beyond, and as soon as the armadillo was inside he slammed the door shut.

"What a dive," he muttered, circling the table. He first looked to his left, at a warthog in Delta Regular dress standing at attention. The warthog nodded at him, and Tatu reciprocated.

He then looked across the table at the occupant of a rickety chair. A massive black suit leaned over the table, its arms propped up under its chin. The black facemask showed all the personality of a chunk of stone.

"Ah, M'quelo," Tatu nodded. "So good to see you in another suit—"

"We can skip the pleasantries," the crackly suit speakers droned. "You know why I'm here..."

"I know you've been a touch 'impatient'—"

"I know that my services had a price, armadillo. And that price has yet to be met."

Tatu sat down, rubbing his wrinkly brow with a paw.

"M'quelo, M'quelo, M'quelo..." he droned. "These things take time."

The suit cocked its head.

"Time?" the speakers hissed. "Let me tell you something about 'time', you ignorant little _whelp_—"

"No need for language," Tatu mumbled.

"There was a time, not so very long ago, when the ocean was clean, and pure, and bright." The suit rested its arms to either side of the table. "There was a time when the land-dwellers fell into conflict with humans, and they reduced all the humans down to just one: your precious Eggman. Now, there was a time he took his ship out to sea— such a desperate retreat— and at that moment he was so angry and so vengeful. And do you know what he did, then? In _no time _at all he demonstrated that vengeance, for all of Mobius to see." The suit slammed its fists down on the table. "But only for us _ocean-dwellers _to suffer through!"

"Sucks to be you, I know," Tatu muttered.

"You _promised _me the chemical formula, Tatu: the original composition of the toxin that Eggman used to poison the oceans! And 'time' wasn't a part of the bargain! We ocean-dwellers have spent enoughtime in _exile _already..."

Tatu inspected his bulbous fingers, shrugging.

"What can I tell you? I'll have it when I _have _it. And you've already spent all that time waiting, what's a little longer, huh?"

The suit crossed its arms.

"Maybe I'm speaking with the wrong person," the speakers warbled. "Perhaps I should be discussing this matter with Eggman, hmm?"

"What makes you think he'd wanna talk to you, M'quelo?"

"Perhaps," the speakers hissed, "Eggman would be interested to learn about your intentional sabotage of the _Filigree _invasion? Perhaps he'd want to know _why _you flushed everyone out of the base before the Elites had the opportunity to crush them all into dust..."

Tatu looked up at the suit.

"Ah... See, that kind of talk disappoints me, M'quelo," he whispered.

"How so?"

Tatu stared at the floor.

"Well, it's just that... I always thought you were a straight _shooter_—"

At that word the warthog brought out a sawn-off shotgun from its vest and fired at the suit, first with one barrel, and then with the other. The first blast decimated the suit, turning it into a cascading river of water and broken glass. The second shot blew apart the more 'squishy' parts inside.

It was over in half a second; the remains of the suit landed hard on the floor, and Tatu rubbed the bridge of his nose with a paw, sighing.

"And here I thought that octopuses were supposed to be smarter than that..."

The warthog approached the remains of the suit warily; he kicked it apart, revealing the corpse inside. The warthog tilted his head quizzically.

"Don't tell me he's not dead?" Tatu asked.

"No, sir: target is eliminated. But..."

"But _what_?"

The warthog looked up:

"You mentioned that the target was a blue-ringed octopus, is that right?"

Tatu stood up abruptly:

"Yes? Why?" He circled the table, and then he came face-to-face with the suit's recently-deceased octopus. The armadillo's heart skipped a beat when he laid eyes on the creature's skin: it was translucent and pale, like a tray of uncolored gelatin.

"That... that is a _glass_ octopus," Tatu snarled.

The warthog looked up at Tatu:

"So it _wasn't _that M'quelo fellow, then?"

Tatu sank down into his chair; his sunken eyes were vacant.

"Sir," the warthog leaned over the table. "There is one thing. _Respectfully_, of course—"

"_What_?"He barked.

"Well, um, this octopus was talking about some kind of sabotage, right? During Operation Silverheart? And, uh, I was just wondering what he _meant _when he said that you were involved in—"

"He's not a trustworthy source," Tatu whispered.

"No?" The warthog asked.

Tatu shook his head. He looked up at the warthog slowly.

"No. After all: he killed you, didn't he?"

The blast from the gun easily pierced the table, exploding up from under it and sending the warthog rocketing back across the room. He landed in a heap in a far corner.

Tatu got up and stood before the window; he watched the swirling vortex of rain cascading outside. After a moment he rested his head against the pane of glass, feeling the cool night air burn into his armored head.

The door burst open; the pub's proprietor— a burly beaver— tiptoed into the room.

"Gods' sakes!" He muttered, whiskers bristling. "Wh— Well, by the _Gods'_ sakes!" He looked at Tatu in disbelief. "What _happened _here?"

Tatu stepped over the bodies, flashing the beaver a venomous sneer.

"Things didn't go according to plan, it seems..."

Tatu shoved a mess of bills into the beaver's apron, and then he gently pushed the beaver against the wall. Without another word he wandered out the door, through the pub, and out into the cold, dark night.


	18. Afterglow

"Afterglow"

I.

Quinn hissed, grating his teeth together.

"Sorry," a quiet voice whispered from above.

"Those claws," Quinn grumbled, biting his tongue.

They hadn't really thought any of this through.

It was a little late for such sentiment, though, as Quinn was now suspended head-first down the narrow mess tent's exhaust shaft, his ankles held tight by a set of furry beaver paws.

And those aforementioned claws. They'd both apparently forgotten about the claws, and the fact that Quinn's flesh was wholly un-furry, tender, and exposed. _And_ Quinn wasn't quite long enough to reach down to the baker's cooling racks below and get his hands on their precious, tasty quarry.

Yeah: they definitely hadn't thought any this through.

And, as if God himself were driving that point home, the young beaver holding Quinn's ankles suddenly began losing his footing. Quinn could hear his lanky feet scuffling about on the struts above him.

"C— Castor?" Quinn whispered. "You doing okay up there? You're not gonna—"

Yeah, he was.

With a panicked shriek the beaver lost his footing; he tumbled down the shaft, pushing Quinn down into the narrow hole at its bottom where the boy became wedged, half of him sticking out the opening, upside down, staring at the floor of the tent. He wiggled his shoulders about, gyrating the whole of his body in an attempt to free himself.

No dice, there.

"Well, couldn't get much worse," Quinn sulked.

A delicate cough brought his face up to level; his eyes bulged as he stared at an inverted sugar glider, her arms crossed and head cocked to one side. Quinn pursed his and smiled awkwardly.

"Uh, hi, Myrtle."

"Hello, Quinn," she said.

Weight shifted above the boy. With a scream he came loose from the vent, crashing down atop a sack of flour. And, of course, that beaver juvenile came crashing down on top of him.

Myrtle shook her head, stroking the silky black fur running down the center of her face.

"...and hello, Castor," she sighed.

Quinn held a finger up, pushing the beaver off him:

"I know what this _looks _like," he said.

"But it's not," Castor declared, struggling to right himself as he rolled off the flour sack.

"Oh," Myrtle leaned against one of her makeshift ovens. "What does it 'look like', exactly?"

"_You_ think we were trying to sneak some sweet rolls," Castor said.

"And that's totally _not _what we were doing," Quinn added. "See, we heard that some _other _kids—"

"We have goats in the Thallomoor?" Myrtle interjected.

"_Juvies_," Quinn corrected himself. "We heard some juvies were gonna try to raid the mess tent, and so we were just checking all around to make sure everything was... you know..."

"Uneaten?" Myrtle helpfully finished.

"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "So, you know... shame on you, thinking we're sneaking sweet rolls."

Myrtle looked back at the cooling racks behind her, eyes moving across all the rows of steaming baked goods she'd spent all morning slaving over.

"I _would _hate to see any thieves go sneaking off with my bread," she admitted. The sugar glider looked at Quinn with an upturned smile beaming off her pointed face. "But I'm curious about one thing..."

"Yeah?" Quinn asked.

"Well, how would I know, or at least how would I _think _to know, that you were after my sweet rolls? There are so _many _types of bread in here, after all. You boys wouldn't happen to have sweet rolls on the brain, would you?"

Castor crossed his arms, scowling.

"N— no, of course not. It's just... well, those're the most _popular _breads—"

"With little boys, perhaps," Myrtle chided.

Quinn crossed his arms.

"'Little'?" He balked. "I'm like—"

"_Twelve_," Fionnghal said.

Castor's badass smirk was ripped from his face as if he'd been smacked by a garden hoe; the beaver spun about, bouncing into Fionnghal's midsection. He fell backward, gaping up at the rat. Fionnghal merely looked down at the beaver with an impish smirk.

"Care to tell me what you juvies are _really_ doing in here?" She looked over at Quinn. "Well?"

The boy looked to one side, face flushing.

"Uh... just some 'juvenile stuff', you know..."

Fionnghal cocked her brow.

"It _has _been awhile since you've been one, right?" Quinn added.

Fionnghal bared her teeth.

"So, you juvies were _protecting _the mess tent, huh?"

Quinn nodded solemnly.

Fionnghal looked down at the prostrate beaver.

"You juvies were protecting the mess tent?" She repeated.

Castor's lips trembled. His oversize tail bumped up against a nearby rack, rattling the metal at an irregular tempo. He nodded as best he could.

Fionnghal crossed her arms, leaning closer down.

The beaver's legs joined his tail, quivering like webbing caught in the wind.

"Castor—"

A sob suddenly burst from the beaver's throat; he fell forward, clawing at Fionnghal's boots:

"We were _stealing_, Mistress! Not too much, honest! Just some swe-ee-ee-eet roo-ooo-ls!" At these last words Castor began heaving with full sobs. Tears streamed freely down his face. He looked up at the rat, his eyes a terrible mess. "P—please don't cut me in half, Mistress Fionnghal! P—_please_!"

Quinn palmed his forehead, muttering to himself while shaking his head.

"Perhaps not," Fionnghal scratched her chin. "_This _time, at least..."

"Th—thank you, Mistress!" Castor wiped his eyes, still drawing irregular, sobbing breaths.

"_Apologize_," Fionnghal growled.

"I'm _so _sorry—"

Fionnghal dragged the young beaver to his feet and made him face Myrtle.

"To Miss Myrtle, Castor."

He bowed his head, sniffling.

"I'm sorry, Miss Myrtle..."

The sugar glider nodded.

"Now," Fionnghal said, "I don't think I'm going to punish you this time, Castor."

"Oh!" The beaver looked back at her. "Thank you so _much_, Mistress Fionnghal!"

"Myrtle: are water lilies on the menu for the herbivores' dinner tonight?" She asked.

"Yes, Mistress," Myrtle answered. "I pulled them from the ponds myself, at dawn—"

"Right," Fionnghal nodded. "Well, now they're _off _the menu, understand?"

Castor's body stiffened; he looked up at the rat with trembling eyes.

"Oh, but respectfully:" Myrtle replied, "water lilies are the beavers' delicacy. I'm going to have a _lot _of angry beavers to deal with tonight."

Fionnghal motioned to Castor with her head.

"Direct them to our young friend, here. And explain to them _why _they're going without, tonight, alright?"

Castor collapsed into muted sobs once again. As he did so Fionnghal winked at Myrtle playfully. Myrtle's big black eyes blinked a few times, and then she reciprocated the playful grin.

"But of course, Mistress. I'll see to it that _everyone _knows about Castors' little transgression."

The beaver went careening out the mess tent, hiding his sobs (rather unsuccessfully) with his paws, stumbling erratically.

Fionnghal pointed at Quinn.

"And as for _you_," she snarled, beckoning with one bony finger. She coaxed him to follow her, and he did. Before he left the tent he turned back to Myrtle:

"Uh, Myrtle: I'm sorry. We, uh, weren't trying to _steal_, really. Just trying to get an early bite..."

The sugar glider nodded, once again tending to her cooking.

"It's fine, Quinn."

The boy followed Fionnghal out, and the sugar glider called out to him again:

"But if I ever catch you skulking around in here again I'll dose your meals so heavily that you'll come down with the trots for a solid _month_. Understand?"

The boy swallowed hard.

"Perfectly," he muttered.

Quinn emerged from the tent and raced up to Fionnghal's side, dodging the rat's swishing tail as she walked.

"You were being hard on Castor," he said. "Too hard."

"Oh?" She asked. "And why is that, Quinn?"

The boy stared at his feet:

"Because that was my idea back there. _I _convinced Castor to hit to mess tent—"

Fionnghal nodded.

"I know," she said.

"How?"

"You did see that whole thing back there, right? Castor's a timid little guy, and like any other juvenile in our camp he's frightened of _me _beyond belief. I'm not the cuddly type, you know. Doubt he'd risk running afoul of my good graces for a whole _truckload_ of sweet rolls." She looked down at the boy. "By the way: Myrtle's rather fond of you, you know. She would've been happy to fork over a roll, if you'd only asked—"

"She wouldn't have given one to Castor though, right?"

The rat shrugged.

"We can't make exceptions for everybody, can we?"

The rat's walking slowed. She looked over at Quinn.

"Why _did _you raid the mess, anyway, Quinn?"

"_Hungry_. Duh."

She crossed her arms.

"As I recall you don't even like Myrtle's sweet rolls. Too much sugar for your taste, isn't that right?"

The boy looked away.

"I... look: Castor and me, we're getting to be friends, but only _getting_, you know? And his parents, they don't want him to be around me... and, well..."

Fionnghal got to one knee.

"You can't bribe your way to friendship using sweet rolls, Quinn."

He looked up at the rat, eyes narrowed:

"What? Just 'cause I don't have any Emerald Fragments, you mean?"

The rat's brow ticked; she looked down at her knee.

Instantly the boy's expression turned:

"I'm sorry about that, Fionnghal. Really. I didn't mean it—"

"Yeah, you did," she said. "And it's fine. Don't worry about it." The rat stood up, dusting her knee off. "And what I _meant_, Quinn, is that Castor already likes you. A great deal, I think. He's one of those animals that are really fascinated with humans. We've got our share of those on Mobius, you know. He'll make the time to be around you, sweet rolls or no."

Quinn faced away from the rat, arms crossed. He nodded.

"You shouldn't cut the beavers off from their water lilies just because of Castor," Quinn said.

"I'm not," Fionnghal admitted. "Myrtle and I were just turning the screws on him. Right now he's running back home to tell his parents everything and beg their forgiveness, like he should. They'll straighten him out."

"You gonna straighten _me _out?" He asked.

Fionnghal shrugged.

"Punish you a little? Yeah, I guess."

"_Not _by cutting my in half, preferably," the boy muttered.

"Well, let's see, I don't know: is your species an obligate carnivore?"

Quinn tilted his head, blinking.

"Do you _need _to eat meat regularly, or can you go without?" She asked.

Quinn saw where this was going; he didn't like it.

"Well, uh, did you say 'need'? As in _need_? Uh, yeah, I kinda do..."

The rat crossed her arms.

"As in, uh, you know: really _want_." Quinn stammered. "Same thing, relatively speaking..."

Fionnghal shook her head, looking down at the ground:

"I think you could go without animal flesh for at least a little while, so until further notice you won't get a cut of the K-Dogs' meat rations. That means a little more for the Girl-Dog, too, and Catchie probably needs it, what with the wounds she got down in Cake Rim. So, yeah: fair is fair."

The boy stared out across the misty expanse of the early-morning Thallomoor.

"Fair, huh? Doesn't really seem like such a big deal, swiping a few sweet rolls," he muttered. "Especially when animals go around here stabbing each other through the back of their necks, shooting each other up, slicing..."

He shivered so very slightly, but quickly willed his body to stop.

"...and _dicing_," he muttered.

"Listen, Quinn, do you want to talk about what happened down in—"

"No." He looked back at the rat, his blue eyes defensive. "_'Course _not. Everything just... everything was what it was, alright? That's all. Talking won't change anything, will it?"

The boy moved off, nearly stumbling over a downed tree branch as he walked. He moved quickly, desperate to avoid that feeling of Fionnghal's concerned eyes boring into the back of his head.

"Quinn..."

"I _said _I don't wanna talk—"

"We're going up north, today. Asher and I have to meet with the big cats of the Uncia Plains."

The boy stopped, turning around.

"Uncia?"

"You're invited," she said, "and it'll be an easy trip. The cats aren't really that outwardly aggressive these days. Just kinda jerks, really—"

"'Big cats'?" He tilted his head. "Like Spindletop, you mean?"

Fionnghal nodded.

"Yeah, there'll be Cheetahs. Lions and tigers, too— you know, all the like. Well? How's that sound?"

The boy considered this for a moment, and then he nodded gently.

"Fine, I guess." He looked up at her suspiciously. "But why do you want _me _to come along?"

The rat shrugged.

"At the very least it'll help keep Myrtle's sweet rolls safe for a little while, won't it?"

II.

Tatu threw his cloak to the warthog waiting at the docking bay door.

"Good to be back in the city, sir?" The warthog asked.

"Oh, a true joy," he muttered.

The pair stalked off down the concourse. Windows ringed the entire outside of the walkway and they offered a sweeping view of Genocide City at dawn. The sun, little more than a cold slab of amber grease, skirted the caldera rim far away on the horizon.

"Would that be sarcasm, sir?" The warthog asked.

"Wish it wasn't," Tatu grumbled. "But Genocide City just isn't my kind of thing." He shook his head. "Cities aren't my kind of thing, period. They never have been. I was born out in the field, you know, and nursed in the rough. I'll die out there in the field, too. I know that much."

"Not in a warm bed, at least?" The warthog said.

Tatu smiled.

"Now _that _is the fear of any true warrior, isn't it?"

They reached a fork in the concourse; bright-lit halls of sleek, gleaming metal spun off in myriad directions. Tatu started down one, but the warthog gripped his shoulder.

"Uh, sir: you're actually wanted at admin this morning. Orders of Eggman, himself. I was told to get you there ASAP, as soon as you arrived—"

"_Admin_?" Tatu snarled. "What for?"

The warthog shrugged.

"I, uh, couldn't say for sure, sir, but..."

"Well I couldn't be _curious _in the slightest, but I am inconvenienced, so I still want an answer. _Spill it_!"

The hog's snout twitched about uneasily, as if caustic fumes were burning it. He looked up and down the empty hallway as he whispered to the armadillo:

"You're wanted on the seventh floor, at that office with no doorway..."

Tatu's snarl was replaced with a quizzical frown.

"Well," he grumbled. "Now I _am _curious..."

The administrative building was a dour thing, even as places called 'administrative buildings' tended to go. Cold fluorescent light shocked the drab brown walls of every empty, yawning corridor that stretched out through each and every level. The sterile scent of bleach dominated all hallways in an oppressive, uniform blanket, broken only by the faint trace of bitter ammonia cleansers beneath it. Of course like any truly dour place the layout was identical from floor-to-floor, with no room for variation or even the most basic semblance of creativity.

Except for the seventh floor.

It wasn't a flashy floor by any means, and it was almost identical to every other floor in every other respect, save for one alteration: at one lonely end of one anonymous hallway— the fifth hallway, to be specific— the corridor ended at a blank, unassuming wall. Every other floor in the admin building had an office door at this location, and on any other floor this _should _be the first office of the fifth hallway.

But Room 751 was a different animal, altogether.

Tatu approached the blank wall, his heavy feet shuffling slower and slower as he walked. Finally he was an inch from the wall, and he noticed that his breathing was long and drawn out. He forced himself into composure.

"To hell with all the shadowy spooks," he grumbled to himself.

At these words the entire wall before him shimmered; the armadillo stepped back with a grunt. Extremely well-oiled gears spun about along the floor, and instantly the drab wall ascended into the ceiling, leaving a narrow path beyond.

Tatu shook his head, again grumbling to himself, and sauntered into the room.

The wall clapped back down behind him; its opposite surface was not so drab and boring: polished metal dominated the entire room, almost like a state-of-the-art surgical ward. The room was unlit and sparsely adorned— a long white table ruled the center with a chair opposite, and a small seating area lay beneath a frosted window with a wicked orange tint. It was ovoid, narrow, and just barely got a glimpse of the rocky caldera's edge beyond the rest of the city skyline. The light of the rising sun was the only light in the room, and it barely pierced the gloom with its harsh orange flare.

As Tatu stared out this window a voice sounded from the chair behind him:

"Nice view, isn't it?"

Tatu turned; the speaker was seated in the chair, facing away from the armadillo. Its feet were propped up on a small desk set against the wall, and one arm was extended, limp, as if the speaker were slouching. Or in a coma, even.

"Not really my thing," Tatu grumbled.

"I know that. Nice _room_, isn't it?"

The armadillo nodded, despite the fact that the speaker couldn't see him.

"Animals whisper about this room. They say things about it," Tatu said.

"Things like?"

He shrugged as he approached the large white desk:

"They say that the Ground Master works out of here." Tatu rested his knuckles on the desk. "So, does that make you the Ground Master?"

The figure chuckled.

"Me? Nah. No: intelligence was never really _my _thing, truth be told."

"Figures. I suppose if you were the GM you'd be working on the _first_ floor, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, that's hilarious." The figure looked around his chair at Tatu; he was only a bleak silhouette in the darkness. "My line of work is more _investigative_. In a traditional sense, I mean. Sorry to say, but if the Ground Master ever worked out of here you just missed him. Or her, whatever. Me, I've been setting up shop in here all morning. Unpacking, you know..."

"And you are...?"

The figure wheeled about in his chair; he rested his elbows on the table. He was gaunt, with very lanky limbs and an odd, bumpy head. Two strange prongs seemed to jut from his face, but like the rest of him they were bathed in shadow.

"I'm Subpar," he said.

"You don't say..."

"That's my division, Mister Tatu."

Tatu squinted.

"What?"

"I'm the _head_ of the division, in fact. Just like you're the head of the Regulars."

"What?"

"The name seemed appropriate. Delta Tribe has its Regulars, and it has its Elites. What it didn't have— until now— is a division that lies _beneath _the other divisions, but lords _over _them, all the same."

Tatu crossed his arms, sighing.

"What?"

"I'm trying to tell you, Mister Tatu, that I'm at your service." He held up a single finger. "But I've also got my eyes all over you."

The figure raised its hand and snapped its fingers; floodlights overhead flared to life in rhythmic order, starting at the hidden doorway and ending at the large white table. They bathed the figure in the chair with obscene light.

The chameleon looked up at Tatu, smiling. At least he smiled with half the jaw that was still his own. A network of metal rivets and wires comprised the other half of his face. He leered at the armadillo with two writhing eye stalks; one of them was anything but organic. It was a clicking, whirring piece of high-tech kit: glistening steel tubes supporting a delicate crystal iris. A small red pinpoint of artificial light burned at the crystal's center. He rested his chin on his hands, and Tatu noticed that one of the chameleon's arms was patched up with metal braces and pneumatic tubes in place of bone and tendon. This artificial arrangement disappeared up into his sleeve; Tatu thought it must continue even up across his chest.

The creature smiled as Tatu surveyed his body in all its amazing, technological horror.

"Who the hell are you?" He balked.

The chameleon looked down at a file on his desk, flipping it open with militaristic precision.

"Who, me? My name is Nez. Kakkari Nez..." He spoke calmly, disinterestedly, as he flipped through his file. He chanced to look up at Tatu, but with an overtly bored expression. "And please forgive my rather, uh, _alarming _appearance, if you will. Blue-ringed octopus venom is a curious thing, and it has certain dramatic effects. Even on bodies strong enough to overcome its 'kill-you-dead-in-between-heartbeats' reputation." He continued leafing through his file, lips pursed with only passive interest, as if he were skimming a bland newspaper. "All in all I wouldn't recommend it—"

"This is ridiculous! You are from _Filigree_—"

"_Was_." The chameleon looked up at the armadillo with a cold, intense stare, but then his leathery face softened. He smiled affably. "No, I had little falling out with _Filigree_. Or Theta Tribe, as I'm told they call themselves now. Whatever. No, they're not my employers now, Mister Tatu. Seems they locked me up for being a little disobedient. Man, I thought _that_ was pretty bad..." the chameleon went back to reading his file, scratching at his artificial jawbone. "...and then, well, your turncoat operative— ol' eight-legged M'quelo— attacked me, poisoned me, and then dumped my body in a garbage chute." Kakkari looked up at Tatu, smiling even wider. "He left me to rot and to die..."

The chameleon scratched at some of the brittle, discolored folds of skin around his mechanical implants.

"Guess I only did _one _of those things, though, didn't I?"

The armadillo stepped back from the desk:

"Just what are you doing here?"

"Paying off a small debt." The chameleon shrugged. "Seems your boss, Eggman, needs a good investigator to go around and, well, _investigate_ his war assets—"

"'Investigate' _how_?"

"Nothing special, really." Kakkari shook his head. "Just making sure that our human friend's ducks are all in a row. Or his _dillos_..."

Tatu scowled at the chameleon.

Kakkari laughed, waving a friendly hand.

"Or _damselflies_, or _warthogs_, or _wolves_, or _whatever_! There're no real target, Tatu, and there's nothing sinister about my appearance, I assure you..." The chameleon picked up a nearby pen with his right hand and moved to scratch notes in his file. He paused dramatically, observing the three artificial digits in that hand; it quivered about awkwardly as he tried to write. Kakkari again smiled up at the armadillo politely, switching the pen to his unscathed left hand. "Well, except for _that_, maybe..."

"And a conflict of interest," Tatu said. "You were working with the enemy not a few _weeks_ ago—"

"I'm a chameleon. We're survivors. And, from what I've come to believe in the past few weeks, _Eggman_ has the plan for this pathetic little planet. And that's a better chance of survival for me. At least he's got more of a plan than that miserable little brown rat Fionnghal does."

Tatu cocked his head.

"You mean Prince Shope, don't you?"

Kakkari looked up quickly, his throat twitching ever so slightly.

"Well... of course. I was— yes— I was talking about _everybody _in charge of that group. Naturally. Although for _her_ the blame might run a tad deeper. Just a _tad_..."

A pause filled the air between them, descending like a cloud of smog. Tatu sank into the chair opposite, grumbling as he settled in.

"Oh," Kakkari held up a finger. "Just so you know, Mister Tatu: I don't hold any of that 'nearly-killing-me-with-deadly-octopus-venom' stuff against you, naturally."

"That makes you either a liar or a saint, Nez—"

"It makes me pragmatic." Kakkari folded his hands over the desk. "I'm well aware that the octopus was improvising when he did what he did in the complex. You didn't _specifically_ order M'quelo to brutally and painfully murder me. Oh, sorry: I say 'murder' because my heart did apparently stop for about twenty minutes— incidentally putting a merciful end to all that blinding, savage pain that I endured— but I digress." That insincere smile on the chameleon's face widened. "What I mean is that I don't blame _you _for what happened."

"M'quelo, then?"

Kakkari licked his lips, staring at the air for just a moment.

"I blame... well, I blame the person that's blameworthy, of course." Kakkari laughed, voice ringing with an unsettling timbre.

"Enough games," Tatu barked. "Just what, exactly, does the old codger want me to do with you, then?"

Kakkari rested his chin on his hands, shrugging.

"Oh, this here is just a little 'getting to know you' meeting. I've already had the pleasure of speaking with— what was his name? Ah, damn near unpronounceable! Well, 'The Brass', as you know him. Fun chat, even though he's in mourning, right now. Apparently he lost one of his lieutenants recently, didn't he?"

Tatu nodded.

"Fi— uh, the Theta Tribe Mistress cut The Denning down in Cake Rim."

Kakkari looked up, surprised.

"Huh. Did she really? Interesting. The Brass didn't mention that to me." He chuckled, looking out the small orange window for the first time during their talk. "Poor, poor 'Theta Tribe Mistress'. Can't imagine the Dolamiram Wolf Pack would let _that _go..."

"Are we just gonna talk about Fionnghal De'Sulum all day, or do you have anything interesting to say?"

"Oh, sure. Well, now that you mention it..." Kakkari spoke in a cool and dry tone, inspecting his artificial fingers as he spoke. "We could talk a little— just a little bit— about the _Filigree _complex invasion. Or 'Operation Silverheart', as you might know it. Now, you knew that Eggman had an 'in' with the Elites, and that he didn't have to give any warning to _Filigree_— to us— because _we _had that wretched little human in our paws. I know this because I was Chief of Security at the time, and I rather forcefully demanded that we slit the little juvie's throat and dump his carcass out on our doorstep for the Delts to collect. Brutal? Yeah, but take a look at the casualty list from both sides and you'll see—"

"I _have _looked at our list," Tatu snarled. "Memorized it, too, if you're interested—"

"No, I'm not. I'm sure you're a real whiz with books, and all, but you can show off your powers of memorization some other time; that isn't what we're here for, today. Let's see, where was I? Ah: well, we didn't kill the juvie— obviously— and so out comes Eggman with his 'action at a distance' gun, ready to pulverize our electromagnetic grid and swarm the complex with Elites. But for _some _reason, Tatu, you jumped the gun. Now why, if I may ask, would you _possibly_ do that?"

Tatu leaned forward, sunken eyes buried under his furrowed iron face:

"Now wait a minute: just where do you get off questioning _my_ command decisions?"

_Thwack_!

Kakkari's half-metal fist lay embedded in the white tabletop; cracks ran along the hard-plastic surface, radiating out from the depression left by his hand. The chameleon first looked down at the table, and the back up at the armadillo, temporarily stunned into speechlessness. Kakkari smiled— sunnily, creepily— and again licked his lips, spreading that otherworldly grin to an obscene extreme:

"Uh, forgive me: I'll just ask the questions, if that's alright, Mister Tatu?"

Tatu leaned back in his chair, first looking at the shattered tabletop, and the back up at the chameleon.

"Thanks _ever _so much," Kakkari's smile quickly fell away, leaving only an icy sneer.

III.

When Tatu left the room the hidden office door snapped shut behind him. Kakkari leaned against his desk and pressed a small button on its side. A small alcove along the room's far wall slid open, and Eggman stepped into the room. The man held a small opaque jar in one hand.

"Initial observations?" Eggman asked as he walked up to the window.

"Your 'dillo is a _snake_, of course. He's hiding secrets behind that bulbous rocky head of his, and sure as anything they're dark ones." Kakkari crossed his arm, scratching at the pneumatic tubes spanning his right forearm. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes. But the 'what' doesn't interest me. It's the 'why' that's important, Mister Nez." Eggman began unscrewing his jar. "I need Tatu dealt with delicately; I control the Regulars with far more authority than I do the Elites, but I would still need to show some cause if I were to go and decapitate the Regulars' leader."

"You mean decapitate the _organization_?"

Eggman looked back at Kakkari.

"After everything that armadillo has put me through, I really could go either way on that."

"And what about my regeneration factor?"

Eggman chuckled.

"Right to the point of business, aren't we?"

"Wasn't this all business to begin with?" Kakkari walked up to the man's side. "I put on a sideshow performance for your 'dillo— put the fear of the Gods into him— and you see what he does with me hounding his rocky rear end. But remember: for my trouble, _I _get my 'mojo' back."

"I do remember. As I said before: your regeneration factor will take _time _for me to properly repair. Your body's response to the octopus venom—"

"—'destabilized the natural healing matrix in my cellular structure, inhibiting apical epidermal cap formation on the skin,' and yadda yadda yadda..." The chameleon waved his hands dramatically. "It's all a mess of sciency gobbledygook. It all sounds _very _impressive, and very _convenient_."

"You're accusing me of lying to you, then? Fair enough. But, I should point out: in no way did I _have _to save your life, Kakkari—"

"I'm not ungrateful," the chameleon grumbled.

He was, in fact.

Kakkari sat up on the desk, and he groaned mightily with pain. He rubbed the metal plate that was his stomach, feeling the mechanical devices that filled his inner crevices resettle into place.

"And my requests thus far are not unreasonable." Eggman leaned against a nearby chair, toying with the nearly opened jar. "Are they?"

"I suppose not." The chameleon looked back at his desk; several stacks of folders lay scattered in one corner. "By the way: I'm working on those dossiers like you asked, but I don't know everything about everyone. The Thallomoor Banshee, for example—"

"Forget Sonic's dossier; I don't need information on him. But tell me something, Kakkari: would you be interested in _not _having this be some kind of 'sideshow performance'? Having it be official, I mean?"

"You're gonna give me an _actual _job offer?" Kakkari chuckled. "Seriously?"

"I watched you grilling Tatu; you enjoyed it. This kind of job plays to your inner strengths, Kakkari. Why, right now you're desperately hiding a self-satisfied grin from me, aren't you?"

Kakkari looked away, briefly, but then he did grin.

"Eh," he waved a dismissive hand. "That's just, uh, the lingering heat of the moment, you know? Making a maggot squirm in interrogation is like, I don't know, the hit of some beautiful, radiant drug. Boils the pleasure center of the brain, I guess."

"The _reptilian _brain, at least..."

"Hmm. Well, in any event, for me, it's like coming down from a delirious high. So it trips my trigger, I suppose. But really that snake Tatu is right, you know. I _was _just working with your enemy—"

"But you were unhappy with _Filigree_. I happen to know that."

Kakkari scoffed.

"Yeah? How so?"

"I operated on what was left of your body, Nez; you were very 'talkative' under anesthetic."

"You drugged me to get some secrets out of my lips, you mean?"

Eggman again smiled.

"Accusing me of that, too, huh? Does it really matter?"

"I guess not," Kakkari answered.

Eggman popped the top of his jar; several bright-colored butterflies emerged, fluttering about the room in delicate arcs.

The chameleon chuckled.

"Oh, Mister Doctor Eggman, sir," Kakkari sighed. "I don't know. I don't think I could trust you not to con me rotten, you know?"

"Awful lot of double negatives in this conversation," Eggman said.

"That's the price of being cagey, isn't it?"

"What _would _make you trust me, Nez?"

"Nothing, really," Kakkari scratched his chin. "Although, no: there is something..."

"And what's that?"

"If you were to trust _me_, well, that might change things. You seem a reasonable fellow."

"I have my moments..."

"I mean that you know how to use an asset when it falls into your lap."

"You didn't exactly fall into my lap. There was some assembly required. Anyway: how would _I_ come to trust you, then?"

Kakkari walked up to the window, staring out at the caldera rim above them.

"Does the name 'Usahla Rose' mean anything to you?"

The empty jar hit the ground, bouncing across the marble floor with an echoing rattle. When Eggman did not speak Kakkari continued:

"I think he was the leader of Omega Tribe, if I'm not mistaken? Well, I _know_ he was." The chameleon looked over at Eggman, who slowly sank down into one of the chairs. "I know more than who he was." He leaned over, whispering in Eggman's ear. "I know _where_ he is..."

"Usahla Rose is dead," Eggman said. "He was killed—"

"In the bombardment?" Kakkari shook his head. "No, no. Now, the ruling council, well, you roasted most of them under all that hellfire, I hear tell, but not Usahla. See, I know the soldier who was charged with getting Usahla out of Omega territory. I was never _in _Omega, mind you, but during my time with _Filigree _I learned a thing or two about that tribe's dirty laundry..."

Eggman rested his gnarled chin on a gloved hand. He removed his thin spectacles, exposing his rotted, black eyes.

"Now," Kakkari cooed, "from what I understand, you would be _really _interested in having a little 'reunion' with Usahla. Isn't that right?"

"Where is he, Nez?"

"I'll tell you, if only to gain your precious trust. He's in a coastal mountain town. It's many miles south from here, but no more than a day or two as the _Viper _flies."

Eggman stood up very slowly, and he did not look at the chameleon.

"Is what you just said correct, chameleon?"

"It is," Kakkari said. He extended an arm, allowing one of the beautiful butterflies to perch on his fingertips.

Eggman moved for the door.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Kakkari asked.

"To be an _unreasonable _fellow," the man growled. He looked back at the chameleon, pointing. "If what you just told me is the truth—"

"I know," Nez said. "And I'll take the job. I'll investigate your troops for you; I'll be your dedicated rat catcher..."

Eggman only gave the briefest nod before darting out the door.

Kakkari looked down at his fingers, admiring the brilliant butterfly. With a snap of his tongue he snared it, pulling it into his jaws with supersonic speed. He munched on the insect's body, eyes rolling with pleasure as his mouth salivated wildly.

Other folders lay spread across his desk, and he thumbed through one of them. A picture graced the front cover: it was Fionnghal, scowling cockily and with a badass grin, but the picture had been taken years ago, when she was in her mid-teens, and it was obviously a zoomed-in close-up from a larger group shot, as other rodent paws and shoulders were visible.

"All the way back when you showed your true colors," he chuckled.

Back before Fionnghal's 'true color' was revealed to be _yellow_.

Kakkari acted like he wasn't ungrateful for Eggman's assistance, but he was. He had no intention of working for these mechanical freaks— to further the goals of Delta Tribe— any more than he wanted to go back and rejoin that mealy-mouthed group cowering in the Thallomoor.

There was something he _did _want to do, however.

Kakkari tapped Fionnghal's picture, his crystal iris glowing with ruddy malevolence, and he smirked. Another butterfly landed on the picture, and Kakkari snared it with his tongue. He nailed it with such force that it tore into the picture beneath, wiping that badass smirk from Fionnghal's face.

Kinda neat, actually. Kakkari thought it was pretty symbolic, at least.

"Oh, I'll be a dedicated rat catcher, indeed," he growled.

But to do what he truly wanted to do he would need more than his brains and his fists. He would need his regeneration factor. He chewed on the butterfly, musing over his options. There weren't many, not at the moment. He needed to bide his time, at leasst for now. So he would play the part of a dedicated, subservient pet, like a collared Dame. At least until he was _certain_ that Eggman had no intention of curing him, or that truly had no ability to do so. At that point Eggman would be worthless to him; perhaps Kakkari could deal with him, then.

The chameleon grinned as he considered just how much better the planet would be without Eggman gracing its surface. Again he looked down at Fionnghal's picture and sneered. Oh, it really would be a better planet if _all _worthless things were removed from the world!

But, to do that, the world would need a rather dedicated rat catcher.

IV.

He touched down on the brittle red rocks, feet poised in delicate riposte even as a wicked cloud of dirt and pebbles parted all around him. Sonic smiled as an artificial thunder radiated out in his wake, raining down into the misty woods beyond his moonscape mountain. The hedgehog stretched a bit, leaning against the steep slope outside his cavern.

His eyes were naturally drawn to the far reaches of the Thallomoor; an anemic column of smoke penetrated the haze, drifting out above the silky face of the forest and into the cold morning air like a pastel ribbon in a girl's hair. Sonic watched this for several minutes, as if transfixed, but then shook his head and scoffed.

He walked into his cavern, pausing at a small shelf. He swung his leg around and bashed the stonework above it with his metal brace, sending a mess of sparks onto a network of wax candles. They sputtered to life, casting shadows wildly.

Sonic went to the back of the cavern and sat before a stalactite dripping water. This water pooled into a small trench dug in the floor, and Sonic gently sank both his legs in, sighing with contentment. For a while he merely stared at the flickering shadows dancing along the cavern's wall.

And when those shadows started moving on their own he leapt to his feet, spinning about with a feral snarl. He nearly touched noses with Fionnghal.

"You let me get pretty close," the rat smirked. "That's rare, isn't it? Especially these days..."

Sonic scowled at her, baring teeth. He took a few steps backward, crossing his arms.

"That supposed to be a metaphor?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Not really. I'm just not that clever, you know—"

"Guess not," Sonic agreed. "Now kindly get the hell out."

Sonic walked past Fionnghal, but she persisted:

"You wanted to see me the other night, didn't you?"

"Not particularly—"

"Fringe tells me you curled yourself up in my bed, and also that you were a little—"

"_Tired_." Sonic leaned against the cavern entrance, shaking his head. "You weren't there, so—"

"So you slept in my bed all night."

Sonic looked back at her, sneering.

"This is the _Thallomoor_, Pew. _My _territory. I can sleep wherever I want. What about it?"

Fionnghal walked forward slowly. Her blue eyes were stern.

"Are you okay, Sonic?"

The hedgehog looked away, staring at some invisible thing on the cavern wall.

"None the worse for wear," he growled.

The rat came up behind him; she stared at the same invisible thing.

"I only ask," she said, "because I can remember the _last_ time you crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night, and—"

Rocks near the cavern entrance suddenly skidded about; the pair started, looking to the other side of the cavern maw. Brady lay splayed on the ground, one paw awkwardly holding his body off the dirt. He regained his footing and dusted himself off, smiling sheepishly.

"Uh..." he chuckled. "Sorry. Just coming up here to let the Mistress know that—"

"_Get_!" Both Sonic and Fionnghal barked in unison.

"Yeah," Brady instantly agreed, backing down the path. "Good idea..."

Fionnghal waited for Brady to leave, and during this time Sonic approached the rocky drop-off. He scanned the empty moonscape beneath his small mountain.

"So, Sonic—"

"I told you I was _fine_, Pew," he growled.

The rat sighed.

"Alright," she nodded. "Can I talk about Quinn, then?"

The hedgehog looked back at her:

"What about him?"

"I think he's taking what happened down in Cake Rim pretty hard. Amadeo and Davidina were killed right in front of him, you know, and _he _almost killed The Brass and the Dame Commander with that slingshot." Fionnghal looked up at Sonic, narrowing her eyes. "Oh, and by the way: what the hell, Sonic? Since when do you hand out deadly weapons to juveniles?"

"That juvenile might _need_ a deadly weapon, that's why. And he ended up saving your skinny tail, didn't he?"

Fionnghal growled, shaking her head. She sat on a nearby rock.

"Look: Quinn's frazzled, that's what I'm saying. Back in the crèche they taught us how our bodies would react to our first use of deadly force, or having deadly forced used against us, or _seeing _deadly force used against someone else, whatever. Chemicals flow in the body, you know? And after it's all over— even after a long time has passed— there's still that primal reaction boiling away in the blood. Our combat instructors called it 'afterglow'."

"I'd call it something else," Sonic mumbled.

"Whatever you call it, I think you know what I'm talking about."

The hedgehog nodded.

"You should talk to him, then—"

"He doesn't want to talk to me," Fionnghal said.

"When he's ready to open up—"

"He might never be ready with _me_. I'm just warning you, here, but I think he might want to open up to _you_."

Sonic scoffed.

"He likes you almost as much as you like him, Sonic."

The hedgehog was ready with another scoff, but Fionnghal held up a stern finger:

"Just stop, alright? Just drop the act for _five minutes_, will you?"

Sonic stared at the ground, sighing.

"Look, Pew, I've got nothing to teach him about that kind of thing. Besides, what's wrong with him talking to _you_?"

"I'm a female, for one thing, and that makes it trickier for him to talk about this with me from the get-go. Also, uh—"

"What?" Sonic crossed his arms.

"Quinn is a sweet juvenile. _Kid_. Whatever he wants to call himself. I wasn't. I wasn't raised to be, and I wasn't bred to be. I'm a living weapon, Sonic, and I don't say that with any pride. With what he's feeling now Quinn will want to talk to someone who, well, you know, actually _respects _life..."

Fionnghal sauntered up to the cliff's edge and stared out at the forest.

"He knows that I don't. Again: I wasn't raised to. And by now he's figured out that you won't kill your enemies."

Sonic opened his mouth, but Fionnghal stopped him:

"And no: he doesn't buy that whole 'neutrality' argument, either. He's _sweet_, not stupid. Point is, he sees you as something supernatural: the strongest of anyone he's encountered on Mobius so far, but also the most restrained. You're really the one he should talk to about this kind of thing. I'd appreciate it if you did."

"So, I'm a role model, huh?"

Fionnghal shrugged.

"Maybe not. Definitely not, in fact."

"Oh, thank you—"

"But you're closer to it than I am, Sonic," Fionnghal said. "By miles and miles."

"Quinn is stronger than he looks, Pew—"

"But he shouldn't have to deal with the things he's seen alone, Sonic. No juvenile should."

"Didn't you?"

The rat blinked, looking away momentarily.

"Well, yes. But that was... well, it was a little rough on _me_, too, I guess. I mean, it is on any juvie—"

"Maybe, Or maybe you were just a sweeter pup than you think you were." Sonic smiled.

"You know I was never sugar 'n spice, and everything nice. So?" Fionnghal gestured with one paw, her brow raised questioningly.

Sonic nodded.

"Fine. I'll talk to him. _If _he comes to me, at least." Sonic shook his head, sighing. "I guess this world can't really afford to let _all _its sweet things go sour, can it?"

Fionnghal smiled.

"Well, you're living proof that even sour things can some work—"

"Don't remind me of all the 'work' I've done lately, Pew..."

The rat looked like she would reply to this, but Sonic's dangerous scowl stilled her tongue. Instead Fionnghal nodded gently and walked back down the path. Sonic called back to her:

"What did the sloth want with you, anyway?"

The rat looked back, drawing a breath:

"We're going out to speak with Upsilon Tribe," she said.

"Why?"

Fionnghal crossed her arms.

"We're gonna talk the big cats out of that deal you made to deforest the northern Thallomoor."

Sonic stepped forward, brow furrowed.

"What the heck for?"

"Because it's retarded," Fionnghal sighed, shaking her head. "It sacrifices too much of our cover—"

Sonic pointed at his chest:

"_My _cover, Pew. _My _woods; _my _territory—"

"Because you're the Speedster? Well, you're not _acting _like a Speedster for this place, Sonic. You know as well as I that deal is rotten for the forest—"

"You're biased, Pew—"

"So are you: the only reason you inked that deal was to push the big cats away from your border. You'd probably let half the forest burn to the ground if it meant pushing the other tribes away from you."

The hedgehog scowled.

"Not at all. But maybe if it meant driving _you_ freeloaders off my land..."

Fionnghal slowly approached the hedgehog again.

"Listen: there's another thing that bothers me: why are the big cats in such a need of lumber? They're expert stoneworkers, and crack metallurgists; some of the very finest war machines ever made come out of Uncia. Believe me: I've met one or two of their master builders. They don't normally use wood in any of their works."

"I was curious about that, too," Sonic grumbled.

"And?"

"And then I realized that it wasn't important," he said. "I don't care why the kitties want lumber; I just want them off my doorstep."

"In that case you can come with us to Uncia," Fionnghal offered. "If you really want to press your case."

"And what is _your _case gonna be?"

Fionnghal shrugged:

"We're gonna press the 'Eggman' angle: if Upsilon Tribe were to start operations in the Thallomoor they might get caught up in our unpleasantness with the Delts. And we're taking Quinn along, too, just to show that we have a human in these woods. That should make the cats want to stay as far away from the Thallomoor as possible."

"At the rate things are going," Sonic grumbled, "I just might join 'em..."

The hedgehog continued grumbling to himself as he walked up to the rat. The pair walked down the mountain path and across the moonscape, heading for the deeper woods.


	19. Natural States

"Natural States"

I.

They took the long way up to Uncia, winding about a narrow dirt lane skirting the northwestern Thallomoor. Eventually the thick, gnarled woods gave way to bright, cheery glades. Shallow ponds skirted their path, shimmering with diamond-white water. Brightly-colored flowers bloomed all along the water's edge, stretching out gloriously under the warm sun, and the fragrant scent of roses and ripening fruit wafted on the air. A cloud of dandelion dust billowed freely, scattered from nearby hilltops, and it swept across the water's surface, exposing the playful circles of the midmorning wind like a daytime will-o-the-wisp. The scene was, simply put, 'idyllic'.

Except for onelittle thing.

"Gaaaaaaah!" Quinn screamed as he slapped the side of his face, bolting out of his seat in the jeep. He stood on the seat cushion, yelling and scratching at his neck and face.

"Take a seat, juvie," Asher called from the front of the vehicle.

"Mosquitoes!" He screamed. "Everywhere!"

"_Sit_."

Katchy and Asher rode up front, the raccoon dog behind the wheel. Thadesch and Quinn rode together in the middle section, and Sonic lounged by himself in the back seat, one arm over his face. They were making good time so far, but after another half-hour their progress was slowed by pedestrians in the road. As they delved further into the Uncia territory's bright fields they met more signs of civilization: a stone hut perched on a hilltop, a watermill at the river's edge, and ultimately signposts marking the distance from the capital of Upsilon Tribe's territory: the city of Ubasti.

Quinn got to his knees again, balling his hands up beneath the sleeves of his jumpsuit. He furiously scratched at his head and neck with the starchy fabric.

"I said sit down, juvie!" Asher looked over his shoulder. "Keep this up and you're gonna do a swan dive right out of this thing."

Thadesch chuckled, one hand pressed over his fat stomach.

"Nice to see you care, Asher."

The cottontail squinted.

"Never said I did. But Fi would lop my ears off if I let him go and hurt himself like that. Or my tail. Or something even less pleasant..."

"As long as it's not your, uh, 'antlers'—"

"Why don't _you _lop these bloodsucking mosquitos' mouths off?" Quinn still scratched furiously at his skin.

"They're really not that bad, today," Sonic said. "They don't usually bother _me_ at all. Of course, that's when I'm moving at 'speed'..."

Katchy briefly looked back at the hedgehog:

"Well, if my sister were here we could move as fast as you want. 'Course, we'd be using all these pedestrians for speed bumps..."

Sonic tapped one of his metal leg braces, shaking his head:

"No: _my _kind of 'speed'."

The toad again chuckled as he watched poor Quinn suffer:

"Must be something about the human body," he mused. "It might be that unique tang in the salt of your skin, perhaps. Or maybe it's your breath. An unpleasant thing, I think. Human breath always seemed a touch 'rotten' to me— uh, no offense, my boy..."

Quinn was too busy stripping all the flesh from his body to take 'offense'.

"Quite ironic, too," Thadesch noted. "I always thought the little buggers went after 'sweet' things..."

Quinn could take no more, again jumping up and shrieking. Asher again whipped about, brown eyes stern:

"You do that again, juvie, and I'll duct tape you to the front of the vehicle and use you as a hood ornament!"

"He'd get bugs in his teeth," Sonic noted.

"Well, let's not be so hasty: it is a long trip, and his theatrics are even better than the ballet!" Thadesch again guffawed.

"Do I _need_ to break out a roll of duct tape," Asher growled, "or are you gonna sit down?"

Quinn bared his teeth, sneering at the cottontail:

"What you _need _to do is friggin' _murder _every last mosquito within ten-miles of here!"

Thadesch chuckled:

"Ah, and this must be the human idea of 'equilibrium' with one's environment. How very enlightening!"

"Just what do you expect me to do, frogger?"

Thadesch shrugged.

"Well, there is a way you _might _be able to get some relief..."

Quinn looked at the toad questioningly.

"How?" He asked.

Suddenly Thadesch leaned forward and his jaw snapped open. He exposed a cavernous black mouth, yawning and empty, except for a very large, very fat tongue. The writhing thing dripped with a dull, greasy spit.

Quinn didn't even have time to react before Thadesch bombarded the boy with that tongue, sending him reeling backwards under its colossal weight. He landed on the floorboards, sputtering and coughing through a sheet of thick goop. The sludge dribbled down his face and chin; it smelled like week-old gym socks dipped in lye.

"A— au— _auuuugh_!"

"There, now," Thadeasch said. "That should probably do it. It'll keep the little buggers away, and it'll keep you from complaining any more, I think. Unless you want to complain about being covered in slime, too, but then beggars can't be choosers, can they, my boy?"

Quinn spit up more of the sludge, still trembling:

"I _smell _like a beggar, now! Gah! What do you keep in your mouth: leftover fryer grease?"

Quinn struggled to get back up into his seat; he bumped a few earthenware jugs at the toad's feet. Liquid sloshed in them as they tumbled on their sides.

"Be sure to watch yourself, my boy," Thadesch righted the vessels. "Can't have _these_ spilling out."

"What's so important about 'em, anyway? What's in them?"

"Oh, these jugs actually _are _full of grease. Just not fryergrease..."

The boy stopped wiping the goop from his face, looking up at the toad with a crooked scowl.

"Bet it still smells better than your spit, frogger."

Thadesch looked over at the nape of the boy's neck:

"Oh. Seems I missed a spot..."

Quinn shrieked, flailing back over his seat. He landed next to Sonic, bunched up against the door panel.

"_Hood ornament_, juvie!" Asher barked.

Sonic smiled, bemused by Quinn's appearance.

"That's actually a pretty good look for you, you know," he said. "And it does wonders to cover up that 'salty' human scent you have..."

"Wanna talk about _smells_?" Quinn hissed. "This gunk reeks! It's almost as bad as all these damned..."

The boy was again balling his fists into his cuffs, preparing to grate more skin from his face, but then he stopped. He perched his lips, confused.

Sonic's grin spread:

"It worked, didn't it? The toad's 'gunk'?"

Quinn sullenly removed his fists from his sleeves, pouting.

"Don't tell the frog," he growled.

"Well, he'll probably figure it out when you stop screaming at the top of your lungs every five minutes."

The boy's pout deepened.

Sonic reclined against the opposite side of the compartment; the dull green chunk of rock bobbed against his chest as the jeep rocked back and forth on the uneven road.

"That's a piece of the Master Emerald, isn't it?" Quinn asked.

Sonic followed the boy's eyes down to the stone on his necklace.

"What, this old thing?"

Quinn nodded.

"Yeah. I remember how it reacted to that emerald fragment back in Cake Rim: that bolt of lightning wasn't aimed at _you_, was it? It was aimed at that chunk of stone."

"How do you know it _wasn't_ aimed at me? Maybe the Master Emerald just doesn't like me very much."

Quinn narrowed his hazel eyes, scowling.

Sonic smiled and shrugged:

"Whatever. As for this thing, Yeah, it's a part of the Master Emerald. Well, it _kinda _is..."

"Kinda?"

Sonic bobbled the stone in one hand:

"This is part of the whole gem, but it's a really _different_ part from the rest. They call it a 'Chaos Emerald'."

Quinn's face puckered:

"But I thought that the Master Emerald was supposed to bring _order _to chaos?"

"And it does. Well, it _did_. You know. The whole Master Emerald could be used to tame Quantum Effects, and most of its fragments could, too. But the ME was never a _flawless _stone. It had its 'imperfections', but it kept those imperfections hidden deep down inside. Admirable, really. I wish some more _living _creatures around the world would take the hint..."

"What kind of 'imperfections' are we talking about, here?"

"Well, our eggheads didn't even detect them until about twenty years ago. Who knows when they first started cropping up? Heck, maybe the emerald _always _had 'em, and we just couldn't detect them until then. Whatever. All we really know about them was that they didn't behave like the rest of the emerald did."

"You gotta know more than _that_..."

Sonic shook his head.

"Not really. Just that they were growing. Constantly growing, and growing very, very slowly. They say that the things gave very weird readings when they were scanned, too. See, the Master Emerald apparently gave _off_ a very small amount of energy whenever it was probed, but the Chaos Emeralds were the opposite: they didn't show _any _readings, and they even seemed to suck up the energy given off by all the equipment the eggheads used to monitor them. Who knows what they were? Heck, for all we know they were just empty pockets of dead air. Bubbles in the crust."

Quinn wrinkled his nose:

"Bubbles... in the _crust_..."

"You know: pizza?"

Quinn's face suddenly brightened.

"Oh! Oh, yeah: _pizza_! I remember that. So, how many of these Chaos Emerald things were there? Where are the rest of them, now?"

"There were six identified around the time that the emerald... well, you know. I got mine out of the smoking wreckage of the crater after it exploded. As for the rest? Scattered to the wind, like the other emerald fragments. Nobody's found any others, yet. Or if they have they haven't broadcast the fact."

Quinn scratched his chin. "But, then how does your emerald do that 'thing' it can do?"

Sonic smirked.

"What: you mean glow in the dark? If you're impressed by a glow-in-the-dark stone then your standards are _way _too low, kid..."

The boy shook his head:

"Not _that_. I mean: how does your emerald slow down the passage of time? Now _that's _a neat trick—"

Sonic sat up abruptly; he scooted over near Quinn, eyes narrowed to slits:

"What did you just say?" He growled.

"I said: how does your emerald slooooooooow the paaaaaaaaaasage—"

Sonic gripped the boy's throat in a choke-hold and pressed him against the door frame:

"What the heck!" Quinn struggled.

"Who told you about that?" The hedgehog growled. "Was it Pew— I mean _Fionnghal_? It was, wasn't it?"

"No! Nobody _told _me—"

"Then how could you possibly know about that?" Sonic brought his face even closer to the boy's; his black nose practically touched Quinn's. "I know _I _didn't tell you. I make it a habit not to tell _anyone_. Most animals think this is just a glorified mood-ring, and that I've got an eye for style."

"You _do_ kinda have a flair for the dramatic," Quinn grumbled. "And if you don't remember: I was _wearing _the darn thing for a little while back during the _Filigree _invasion. You know: when you _dropped _it?"

"Vaguely remember," Sonic growled. "So, what about it?"

"So? So I got ambushed by a Delt while I was wearing it, and as soon as my heart started racing the whole friggin' universe just slowed down to a crawl all around me. It's like my brain was running on overdrive: sorting things at ten times normal speed! That's not the kind of thing you just forget."

The hedgehog scoffed.

"That's impossible. You were just scared, and hopped on your own adrenaline. This emerald doesn't work for anyone else. It never has."

"Well: now you've met someone else that it hasworked for. So there!"

The hedgehog's eyes narrowed even further.

"Here." He removed his necklace and handed the stone to Quinn. "Put it on. _Now_."

Quinn looked at the hedgehog quizzically.

"Why?"

"Experiment," Sonic said.

Quinn did as he was told, putting the silver chain around his neck and allowing the giant jagged stone to dangle around his sternum. It bumped up against the gold ring resting around the other chain on his neck, though, and so Quinn pulled this chain off and handed the mysterious ring to Sonic.

"Be careful with that thing," Quinn motioned to the ring. "It's probably pretty important to me. Or not. Whatever..."

Sonic pocketed the ring and chain, nodding.

Quinn looked down at the emerald around his neck, and then back up at the hedgehog. He shrugged.

"Well, now what?"

Sonic smiled just a millisecond before bopping Quinn on the forehead.

_Hard_.

Quinn fell back against the door, shrieking with surprise.

"What the hell!" He said.

"Slow reflexes there. Doesn't look like you've got the 'time', does it?" Sonic grumbled.

The hedgehog slowly looked forward: every other passenger in the jeep stared back at the pair. Even Katchy, who probably _should _have been watching the road. Sonic smiled, cocking his brow.

"Just proving a point, folks..."

The awkward scene was broken by the sound of massive wings flapping overhead. A rodent body abruptly landed smack on the hood of the jeep, crouched at the ready. Fionnghal looked up at Asher and a very startled Katchy, first with a determined scowl, but almost immediately a childish grin washed over her face.

"Having fun, are we?" Asher smirked.

The shadow of a chaffinch swept over the vehicle; Fringe rode a gust of warm air, sailing back up into the ether.

Fionnghal gripped the top of the windshield and flipped herself into the front seat, sandwiched between Asher and Katchy.

"I gotta admit," she said, "that wasn't boring..."

"What's the word from Ubasti?" Asher reached under his seat and handed _Curtainrod _overto Fionnghal. "Are the big cats up for a powwow? You leave an impression?"

"Kitties arewilling to meet," Fionnghal said. "And yeah: it's kinda hard for a rat air-dropped into a town square via chaffinch _not _to leave an impression. That said: the kitties aren't very impressed with _me_, per se."

"How so?"

"They wanna meet with _Prince _Asher Shope, and not with one of his rat flunkies." Fionnghal inspected her fingernails, trying to hide a very dark scowl bubbling up over her face. "Coincidentally: I had to tell the kitties that I was 'one of your rat flunkies'..."

Quinn leaned over his seat:

"But I thought that Mister Asher _couldn't _go around calling himself a 'prince'. It was something about him ticking off the other tribes by doing that, right?"

Thadesch chuckled:

"Well, if by 'ticking off' you mean 'starting a no-holds-barred, all-out, bare-knuckle war against us' then yes, you're right. Planet's got enough problems as it is. Dealing with the return of the Shope Dynasty? And right now? That'd be a bridge too far..."

"Sooooo—"

"Kitties are different," Fionnghal explained. "The big cats are really into the whole royalty thing. They've got one of the oldest royal families in Mobius. Older than the Shopes, even. Before the Time of the Tribes they were subservient to Asher's family in Sulumac'Dun, more like figureheads. Nowadays, though, the whole 'royal family' thing is a lot more important to them. Gives 'em an identity apart from all the other tribes, you know."

Asher scratched at one of his gnarled horns, clucking his tongue:

"I... uh, I would rather not introduce myself to the cats as a _Shope_."

"You'd rather introduce yourself as the leader of a homeless rabble of mismatched critters eking out a miserable existence in a flimsy tent-city located inside one of the most inhospitable forests on Mobius?"

"_Yes_," Asher growled.

"Well, we need an 'in', don't we? And you're an 'in', aren't you?"

Katchy looked over at Asher and Fionnghal:

"Hey, speaking of that, why didn't we just— er, I mean, _respectfully_..."

Asher waved a paw, rolling his eyes.

"Don't we _have _a cheetah?" Katchy said. "Why didn't we bring _her _along to help with the kitties, if they're gonna be so standoffish?"

"Spindletop is sick," Fionnghal looked out at the scenery.

"_I've_ got the sniffles," Asher growled. "And _I'm _still here."

"She wasn't fit for travel," the rat said. "Believe me. Poor thing was expelling the most unimaginable fluids from nearly every orifice in her body—"

"Ow!" Quinn gripped his ears with both hands. "Hey!"

"Awfully convenient," Asher shook his head. "What: did she leave a major gambling debt back in Uncia, or something?"

"Spindletop is a city girl," Fionnghal said. "I picked her up in Lower Rocciaforte, not Uncia."

"Which only raises more questions," the cottontail smirked, "but whatever. All that matters is she ducked us on this one, and I don't appreciate that..."

"Respectfully, my dear Asher, it doesn't always pay to be so suspicious of everyone." Thadesch said. "As to Spindletop's illness, well, I would probably take the girl at her word."

Asher looked back at the toad:

"Don't we pay you _not _to take anyone at their words?"

"You don't pay me at all, Asher. That's another problem, entirely. But in our cheetah's case I think that our security chief's experience might be illuminating: apparently Brady was suitably impressed by Spindletop's ability to place and maintain the defensive grid all around our perimeter, and so he thought he'd see if the girl wouldn't mind performing some routine gunsmithing. The sloth went up to her tent just this morning, toting a whole armful of rifles in those ungainly meat hooks he calls paws. Spindletop comes out, takes one look at him, and then goes off shrieking like a banshee— er, no offense, Banshee..."

Sonic, again lounging on his side in the backseat, grunted indifferently and motioned with one hand.

"...and then she knocks Brady down to the ground before darting back into her tent, gibbering nonsense all the while."

"Par for the course with her," Asher growled. "Brady put it best: 'kitty is a ditz'."

Quinn propped his elbows on his seat, leaning forward:

"Spindletop _is _crazy, but I think she's crazy in a good way, you know what I mean? Or at least not a _bad _way; she doesn't look like she's a very violent animal—"

"She isn't." Fionnghal continued to gaze at the rolling hills in the distance.

"Exactly the point," Thadesch nodded. He produced a long cigar from his waistcoat and contemplated it as he spoke. "Behavior out of character usually indicates a body out of _sorts_. There's at least evidence for it, Asher. And anyway: Spindletop is no schemer. She _is _a ditz, technical prowess notwithstanding. It's an incredible thing, and the gods of your forefathers know it happens rarely enough, but still: ever so often, right out of the blue, a creature _might _just be telling you the truth."

Thadesch lit up his cigar and went to puffing at it, inhaling and exhaling powerful lungfuls of caustic smoke. The smoldering fumes whipped through the air, hammering Quinn in the backseat. The boy choked on it, at first managing well-enough, but eventually his face blued and his eyes watered.

"Mister Asher," he called up front. "Do you have any duct tape?"

"Can't say I do, juvie." He answered. "Why?"

Quinn leapt out of his seat, clearing the middle section entirely, and forcibly wedged himself in the front seat between Asher and Fionnghal, bringing the number of occupants up there to an uncomfortable four.

Asher slowly looked down at the boy. He bared his teeth, bushy brow furrowed in a dark scowl.

Quinn responded with a sunny smile:

"No duct tape: no hood ornament," the boy said.

Fionnghal wrinkled her nose and looked around the cabin, first at Katchy, and then down at Quinn:

"Hey: is anyone else getting that 'moldy sock' smell?"

"More or less," Quinn crossed his arms and scowled.

Twenty minutes later the gentle hills and shallow ponds of the southern Uncia gave way to a sprawling plain of endless grassland plunging down into the deepest recesses of the territory. Miles upon miles of land were visible, and in the far distance a great mountain loomed. It was a jagged, stern and foreboding thing, with uneven peaks glistening under a thick coat of ice. The lonely thing couldn't have been more out of place in the otherwise cheery and sunny landscape.

Fionnghal noticed Quinn staring.

"That's the Frostblessor," she explained.

"It... uh, it stands out," the boy admitted.

"The knife in the heart of the kitties' territory," Asher smirked.

"Do the big cats _live_ up on that thing?" Quinn asked.

"They'd certainly liketo," Asher shook his head.

"No, they don't. But the mountain is a kitty holy site," Fionnghal said. "Well, kind of holy, in a way. Holy-_ish_, let's say. The big cats believe that they were all 'born' up there."

"'Born'?" Quinn tilted his head.

Fionnghal nodded.

"They're into this whole creation myth thing: the story goes that the Gods of Asher's forefathers put the big cats on the Frostblessor at the start of the world. They lived up there in peace and harmony, so they say, and it kinda helped that they were all just onespecies, back then."

"One species?" Quinn stared down at his lap, gnawing at his lip. "Huh. Wonder what kind of cat they would have been..."

"What kind do you think?" Asher grumbled. "The kind of cat that could actually _live _on a godforsaken piece of frozen rock like that. The kind with muted fur and subtle rosettes that would blend perfectly into a mountain snowstorm, like a pillar of marble hiding in the slush. The kind with heavy fur and massive fuzzy tails— like overgrown boa constrictors—that they could use as shrouds for warmth. And the kind with a seriously ripped body, standing at least a foot taller than your modern big cat, built up with the perfect blend of fat, muscle and bone to survive." The cottontail looked over at the boy, his brown eyes eerie and wild. "In short, juvie? The kind that you would never see coming for you until your head was cut clean from your body, bouncing over the permafrost, leaving nothing but a trail of steaming red blood in its wake..."

Quinn leaned back, staring at the cottontail with drawn lips.

"_Ash_," Fionnghal hissed.

The cottontail's wild eyes calmed; he grew a mischievous smirk.

"Relax, juvie," he said. "It's all superstitions and fairytales."

Quinn didn't relax too much, but he did ponder Asher's description.

"You're talking about a snow leopard, aren't you?"

The rat nodded:

"Yeah. Story goes that the big cats were supposed to stay up on their mountain. It was a paradise the gods had carved out specifically for them, and they were allowed to live their lives as the gods intended. In their 'natural state', that's what they called it. But one day some of the cats decided to leave the mountain and explore Mobius, and the gods were so angry with them that they struck their whole civilization with strife and infighting; the gods did everything they could to destroy the kitties' society, even turning them into all the species of big cat we have today: cheetahs, jaguars, lions, tigers, you know. They went their separate ways after that. But over time the cats began relocating themselves back around the Frostblessor Mountain, especially as the rest of the planet went to pot around them. And then another legend sprang up: now they say that if a big cat manages to climb the Frostblessor by the skin of their bare paws— and scale it all the way up to its highest peak— the gods would look favorably on him and give him their blessing. Once that happened, so they say, that kitty would return to his 'natural state'. That's why they call the mountain 'Frostblessor'."

Quinn blinked.

"'Natural state'? You mean if a big cat climbs the Frostblessor Mountain they'll be, uh, turned_ back_ into a snow leopard?"

Asher scoffed, shaking his head.

"Like I said: superstitions and fairytales."

"Says the magical lucky rabbit," Quinn grumbled. "Well, has anyone ever done it?"

"Climbed the thing? Well, many have tried," Fionnghal said. "Many have died. A few reached the top; even fewer have come back down. And _nobody's_ turned into a snow leopard. Not yet, anyway. I can't say whether their little legend has any truth or not—"

"_I _can," Asher growled.

"—but snow leopards _did_ exist once. We know that, at least."

"Mmm." Thadesch pulled the pipe from his lips, leaning forward. "But then the youngest skeleton ever found is on the order of 700 years old. If the snow leopards are ever coming back you can bet that a little 'magic' would be involved, somehow."

Asher shook his head.

"We should have had Miles clone a snow leopard up for us before we left. Maybe the big cats would be more 'amenable' to us, then..."

"Or you'd be sparking a teeny-tiny little holy war," Thadesch guffawed. "The cats have already disobeyed the gods once, haven't they? I can only imagine what the gods would do if we used a genetic shortcut to solve their religious problem."

"Probably give us a medal for creative thinking," Asher grumbled.

"Doesn't sound like something they'd appreciate. The Gods of your forefathers never exactly struck me as the 'think-outside-the-box' types."

"That's one of the reasons why they're the Gods of my _forefathers_," the cottontail grumbled.

The jeep moved down into a busy little outpost outside Ubasti's gates. Sonic sat up at one point, taking note of three animals standing in the shadow of an adobe hut, conversing with each other around a wooden cart, its contents draped with a white cloth. One of the animals was a tall, muscular cheetah, and another a thin, wiry-necked chaparral with a crooked beak and large red eyes. The third animal stood in the doorway, its whole body bathed in shadow.

The hedgehog leapt from the slow-moving jeep and moved off to join the party at the door. Quinn took note of this and followed suit, scurrying gracelessly over Asher and landing on one knee in the dirt before getting to his feet.

"Quinn!" Fionnghal called to him. "We're not at Ubasti, yet!"

The boy cocked his head at Sonic:

"Sonic can bring me over to you when he's done here," the boy said.

Katchy looked at Fionnghal for orders; the rat shrugged, shaking her head, and motioned for him to continue driving.

Quinn caught up to Sonic before he reached the other animals.

"You weren't exactly invited," Sonic grumbled.

"Invited myself. Who are all these guys?" Quinn cocked his head at the party.

"The roadrunner is Velox," Sonic motioned to the chaparral. "He's the Speedster of the Lesser Wastes. That's desert territory east of here, near where Sulumac'dun once stood. The fellow in the shadows is Schologig, Speedster of the Auxodale. That's all rainforest, and _way _south of here. He's a long way from home..."

"And the cheetah?"

"Nix Acinó. Speedster of the Uncia Plains, 'natch."

"These guys are allSpeedsters? What are they doing here?"

"Dunno. But it's _never _a good thing when a bunch of Speedsters get together..."

The chaparral quickly twisted its wiry neck about as Sonic and Quinn approached. He parted his short beak, crimson eyes glowing with cold amusement:

"Is that... is that Thallomoor? Well, it _couldn't _be Thallomoor, could it? I thought you only came out on a full moon..."

"Spare me, Lesser Wastes," Sonic grumbled. He positioned himself in the middle of the group, in front of the tarp-draped cart, and crossed his arm, looking at the cheetah:

"How's it hanging, Uncia?"

"Low," the cheetah grumbled. "Just what are you doing out here, anyway?"

Sonic cocked his head at the jeep, now a mere speck on the road to the capital:

"Remember that little 'vermin' problem I've got in my woods?"

Nix Acinó nodded.

"Well," Sonic said, "they're trying to muck-up our little 'lumber-for-land' deal."

"Well, just see that they _don't_, hedgehog."

Sonic shrugged:

"That'll depend on how much you can help me defend our deal."

Nix Acinó shook his head:

"You'll be dealing with Mistress Pascale directly, today. I can't be bothered, if you didn't notice..."

Sonic looked down at the tarp:

"Speaking of which, what's with the little sewing circle, here, ladies?"

"An incident," the muscular cheetah growled. He motioned to the cart with his head. "_He _has struck, hedgehog. _Here_..."

Sonic looked back at Velox, the chaparral.

"'Him', huh?"

"_Him_," Velox confirmed.

Sonic looked down at the tarp; he put his gloved hands upon it, ready to lift it up, but then he looked back at Quinn. The hedgehog made sure to position his body between the boy and the tarp, blocking Quinn's view.

And when Sonic took a look underneath that tarp Quinn felt a little glad that he had. Seldom had Quinn ever seen something that could phase the stoic animal, and _nothing_ that could blanch the color from his furry face the way the contents of that cart did. Sonic quickly replaced the tarp and stepped back.

"So," Sonic mumbled after a brief pause, "he's got a cheetah, now..."

"The number of animals on his list grows shorter and shorter..."

This voice came from the darkened doorway, from the animal called Schologig. It was an odd sound: a mess of clicks and hissing. Intelligible words lay buried far underneath the throaty rasping. Quinn thought the best analogy was the sound of individual bagpipe notes forcing their way up above the constant drone of the instrument.

That reminded the boy: he _really_ hated bagpipes.

"None of this explains the need for your little sewing circle," Sonic said. "If _he's_ already struck in Uncia then that means he isn'tin Uncia. Not anymore, at least."

"He was in the Lesser Wastes just last month," Velox said. The ratty feathers on the nape of his neck brindled. "And yes: he got one of ours in Lambda Tribe."

"He's taken a roadrunner? Then what's done is done. That means you're all _safe_ now, doesn't it? No need for you here—"

"You're joking, right?" Velox sneered. "This is an obvious security issue—"

"Not for you. That'd be a _revenge _issue."

"Six of one..." the chaparral's ruddy eyes narrowed.

Schologig, that looming black tower in the doorframe, again spoke:

"'The Poacher' is restless these days, Thallomoor. With his kill in the Lesser Wastes, as well as his kill here, today, we see a definite 'trajectory' in his movements..."

Sonic rolled his eyes.

"Ah: and that'd explain why you're here, Auxodale. Worried that he's gonna hit the rainforest, eh?"

"You'll admit, Thallomoor, there is a great 'diversity' of life in my territory. A tempting target, no?"

"Well, not necessarily. He doesn't have a hedgehog yet, does he? Maybe he'll come after _me_, first..."

Nix Acinó scoffed, shaking his furry head.

"Somehow I doubt that you're on his 'menu'."

Sonic waved a paw, turning around:

"I'll let you know, Uncia. But, until then, don't come bothering me with any of your little problems, 'kay?"

Sonic took a few steps before the cheetah roared:

"The Poacher is _everybody's _problem, hedgehog!"

"Not mine. Not _yet_—"

"Since you _are _here, Thallomoor," Velox said, "we're a certified regional quorum, aren't we? And guess what?" The roadrunner bent his head down, craning his elongated neck and glaring at Sonic with spiteful eyes: "I'm making the 'hue and cry'..."

"Oh, come _on_!" Sonic shook his head.

"As do _I_." Nix Acinómoved forward:

Schologig's lumpy body wobbled about in the doorframe:

"And the Auxodale will respond."

Velox looked back at Sonic, beak parted with a self-satisfied smirk:

"Two calls for aid, and one response. That's three against one, Thallomoor: you're in on this whether you like it or not!"

Sonic grumbled, again shaking his head.

"No way. I've got enough on my plate these days. Especially given my recent 'vermin' problem..."

Sonic turned his back on the Speedsters, but then Schologig's body again writhed in the darkness:

"You are the _Thallomoor_!" He hissed and clicked. "And if you won't _act_ like it, hedgehog, then you can stop_ being_ the Thallomoor!"

Sonic glared at the dark body, and then at Nix Acinó. The cheetah crossed his arms and nodded:

"Don't expect us to honor your claim as Speedster if you won't honor our hue and cry, Sonic. We'll ignore you, and start doing official business with your 'vermin', instead, whether you like it or not."

"That'd piss me off, Nix," Sonic snarled. "Are you prepared to deal with the consequences of pissing me off?"

"More than you are," the cheetah said. "You've got way too much on your plate right now, remember? You don't need to add a political struggle to all that, do you?"

Sonic stared down at the dirt and gnashed his teeth together. He said something very naughty under his breath.

Schologig ribbed the hedgehog:

"Perhaps our needle-back simply lacks a spine..."

"You're one to talk, Auxodale."

"_Yeah_!" Quinn stepped forward, sneering into the darkness of the doorway.

Nix Acinó and Velox took note of the boy for the first time. The cheetah looked him up and down:

"Who are you?"

Quinn looked up at Nix:

"They call me _Qui'ntroshe_."

Nix Acinó looked at Sonic:

"Is this thing a human?"

Sonic nodded.

"Eh. So they _are _back on Mobius."

"Just me, actually," Quinn said. "But I'm enough, believe me."

"This human certainly has a mouth on it," Schologig hissed.

"At least I don't have to hide myself in doorways," Quinn crossed his arms. "It seems like _you're _the one without a spine!"

"Uh, Quinn," Sonic coughed.

"Think so?" Schologig's body writhed about.

"Yeah," Quinn sneered. "All that cowering in the darkness you're doing: do you think it makes you look more intimidating, or something?"

Again Sonic coughed.

Schologig's body slowly rose up until it nearly filled the doorway. A long, steady hiss escaped his mouth.

"Intimidating? Oh, I don't know..."

Suddenly Schologig burst from the doorway, thundering forth like a rushing freight train.

This was a freight train of crusty, segmented cars, each supporting a pair of writhing, keratinous legs. The shuttle-car body soared deftly across the gap between Quinn and the door; a pair of lethally-sharp forciplues jutted from its flat head, and a mess of beady, trembling eyes leered from an alien face.

Before Quinn could react the centipede's body enveloped him, circling him from his ankles to the nape of his neck; Quinn fell backward, landing hard. All along his body he felt those writhing legs pressing against him, wriggling about like giant earthworms that had come to feast on his body.

Schologig's head came up to face the boy; he gripped Quinn's cheeks with those massive forcipules— tight enough to bruise, not tight enough to draw blood. The centipede hissed at him, and the air smelled of fungal rot:

"Now that you can see me: am I more intimidating, or less?"

Quinn was not in any state to answer that question.

"What's the matter, mouthy little..."

Schologig briefly tightened himself around Quinn, drawing a squeal.

"..._boy_," the centipede hissed. "And, for the record, yes: of everyone here, I _am _the only one of us without a spine. Do you have a problem with that?"

Again, Quinn was not in any state to answer that question.

"Ease up, Auxodale." Velox laughed, his red eyes beaming. "Let the poor little juvie up so he can change his jumpsuit!"

Schologig drew its hideous face down even closer to the boy, hissing louder.

"_Auxodale_," Sonic stepped forward. "That's enough. The human's with me."

The centipede deftly 'unwrapped' the boy, spinning his body about until Quinn was dumped, unceremoniously, face-down in the dirt.

"But of course," the creature's mouth clicked loudly. "A match made in heaven: a species that doesn't deserve to be on this planet consorting with a Speedster that doesn't deserve to control his territory."

Sonic roughly got Quinn to his feet.

"So what's your answer on the hue and cry, Thallomoor?" Nix Acinó asked. "You in, or what?"

"_Fine_," Sonic growled.

"Expect us to be in touch, then," Velox said.

Sonic shook his head:

"No. You want to send me a message? Pass it along to my 'vermin'; they'll get it to me. I don't want any of you anywhere _near_ my woods. You got that?"

The cheetah laughed:

"What, are you putting Asher Shope's crew to work as your personal secretary service?"

"If only the little prince would take such honest work," Velox put his hands on his hips. The roadrunner's eyes were narrow slits, and his feathers ruffled uncomfortably. "Tell me, Thallomoor: just what is that Shope boy doing in those misty woods? Marshaling his forces, perhaps?"

"He isn't running any tribe," Sonic said. "He's in _joint command _of one."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Velox said. "The allure of power is quite strong, doubly so for a cottontail. It goes hand in hand with their penchant for destruction. I suppose we'll know for sure if a Shope is leading Theta Tribe if those lovely, misty woods of yours end up turning into a barren wasteland."

"Still bitter about Sulumac'Dun, huh?" Sonic shook his head. "Believe me: you wanna know who wears the pants in Theta Tribe? Just go around asking any of its members who they're most frightened of pissing off. The answer won't be 'Asher', I guarantee it. They'll tell you all about this certain petite rat carrying around a plus-sized sword—"

"That proves nothing; every leader has his lieutenants," Velox countered.

Sonic grinned.

"Okay, new game: go up to that aforementioned rat and refer to her as one of Asher's 'lieutenants'. Just make sure that your affairs are all in order before you do..."

Sonic and Quinn took to the road soon after this exchange. The hedgehog took the boy on piggyback for a while, but soon they encountered the Ubasti city gates. The area beyond was far too crowded for Sonic to move at speed, so Quinn dismounted and the pair went the rest of the way under their own power.

"What was up with that whole thing back there?" Quinn asked. "Who's 'The Poacher'?"

"That's the million dollar question..." Sonic looked down at the boy, perching his lips. "He's, well, he's a criminal. The Speedsters want to bring him in—"

"Mmm," Quinn grunted. "'Cause he _sounds_ like he's a serial killer. And it also _sounds_ like those other Speedsters want him dead."

"You're getting pretty good at reading between the lines, aren't you, kid?"

Quinn shook his head:

"Not really. I am getting more acquainted with death, though..."

To either side of the white city walls stood large, golden statues of cats— each a cheetah. They were generally unremarkable, but Quinn picked out one notable feature: each statue had a set of three strong, solid black lines training down their backs, starting at the nape of their necks and ending just shy of the buttocks.

"Did someone take a paintbrush to these guys, or what?" Quinn asked.

"That's the mark of the Król," Sonic explained. "The kitty royal family. That pattern's branded into their fur from birth."

"Ah," Quinn nodded. "So, this 'Mistress Pascale' is—"

"She's no Król," Sonic explained. "She heads up the provisional kitty council. She's a real hothead, from what I hear. The stubborn, brash type. But I wouldn't know; I've never dealt with her directly. Maybe _you'd _get along with her, though..."

Quinn looked up at the hedgehog:

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I hear tell that you've been a real pill these past few days."

Quinn looked away, sneering:

"What about it, huh?"

"Need I remind you that your acid tongue nearly got you eaten by a giant centipede? You can't go running around with your head stuck up that high. It's a good way to get it lopped off."

Quinn kicked some stones about as he walked, hands stuck in his pockets:

"Guess _that_ happens a lot around here, too, doesn't it? No big deal, really. Maybe that's just _our _'natural state'..."

Sonic got in front of the boy and took a knee; he poked the boy's sternum forcefully:

"You're acting like a little fool again, you know that? Just because you've seen all this violence lately doesn't give you a free pass to be a little jerk. Yeah: we're all in dire straits here, and it's a pretty crapsack world. _Violent_, too. Sucks to be us, I know. But one thing that's more important than all the violence is your _response _to it. It doesn't have to change you, and you shouldn't _let _it change you, either. I told you before: I don't recommend acting _fearless_ in the face of danger, Quinn, and I sure as hell don't recommend acting _emotionless _in the face of violence. You'll end up like Fionnghal that way. It _lessens_ you, kid..."

Quinn looked away, his hazel eyes cold.

"Fionnghal..." his throat twitched. "Sonic, when I was...when I was in front of that Dame Commander— when I had her _in my sights_... and when she was coming at me... I... I was... I wou—"

Sonic put a hand on the boy's shoulder:

"No shame in being afraid to take a life, kid. That sentiment is actually kind of healthy, truth be told."

Quinn stared at the ground; he didn't look up again for a long while. When he finally did his eyes were far more troubled:

"Sonic: have you... have _you_ ever..."

The hedgehog put his lip in his teeth; he nodded slowly:

"Well, uh, see: I've done things that I'm not too proud of, for sure. Things I regret. Heck, taking the wings off of Eggman's little pet Dame is actually one of them. That just wasn't right to do, and it certainly gave her a bit of a complex, don't you think? I wouldn't have done that if I could've helped it at the time, but I couldn't. I didn't have time to avoid it, you see, so I did it. That's all there is to it."

"But, I mean, have you ever... uh... had to..."

The boy suddenly looked away, shaking his head adamantly:

"N— never mind. Forget it. I don't wanna talk about it anymore."

"Quinn, you shouldn't feel bad about freezing-up. It's _natural_—"

"_Seriously_." Quinn looked back at Sonic, nascent tears brimming in his eyes. "Please. Let's just go and meet up with the others, alright?"

Sonic considered the boy for a moment. He shrugged, and then he got to his feet. The pair walked in silence for a time, weaving through the crowded streets of Ubasti.

"Looks like you're afraid to talk about this, aren't you?" Sonic said.

"That bother you, much?" Quinn grumbled.

Sonic smiled, shaking his head:

"Not really. At least you're not being _fearless_, anymore. I guess that's an encouraging sign. In _my_ book, at least..."


	20. Putting out Fire with Gasoline

"Putting out Fire With Gasoline"

I.

Sonic and Quinn moved toward the city center. They passed through a large open-air bazaar; it teemed with all manner of big cats. Quinn felt a certain prickliness in his skin: it was claustrophobia closing in on him. Actually that might not be the right word. It wasn't the closed spaces that upset the boy.

It was that giant sea of sharp-clawed, razor-toothed cats he waded through.

The little human didn't go unnoticed, either; everywhere furry heads cocked to the side, pointed ears stood erect, golden eyes narrowed. He was drawing attention— _lots _of it— and not just because he wasn't a cat. Quinn shied closer to Sonic:

"I don't suppose that whole 'mole rat' line would work on these guys, huh?"

Sonic shook his head.

"Probably not. Kitties generally know a human being when they see one; they traded heavily with Omega Tribe back when humans first showed up, and so they got a front-row seat to all our dealings with them. Anyway, it wouldn't really do to hide you, would it? That's not why Fionnghal brought you here..."

The boy looked up at Sonic with a furrowed brow. Sonic read his puzzlement and clucked his tongue:

"Ah, Pew didn't tell you why you're here, huh?"

"Something about protecting Myrtle's sweet rolls—"

"I had one of those," Sonic smirked. "They're a little _too_ sweet for me, honestly."

"I know, right?" Quinn again stared at the perturbed cats all around him, still feeling his flesh prickling. "So then why _did _she bring me along? Does she want me to do something?"

"Yup. And you're doing it, already." Sonic motioned to the sea of cats parting all around them. "She wants to freak out the kitties; she thinks it'll make them more likely to pull their log cutting operation out of the northern woods."

"Figures," the boy grumbled. "Seems like I never get to go anywhere unless someone's got a job for me..."

"Mmm. Welcome to 'tribehood', kid."

The pair finally emerged from the bazaar, moving into a cobbled square flanked by stone buildings on all sides, broken only by arched gates radiating out in all the cardinal directions. The gate across from them was done up in more elaborate metalwork, bearing silver and gold trim, and it was manned by two cats in polished armor. Their heads lay shrouded in fearsome metal helmets adorned with jagged spikes, loud colors, and overdone etching. Quinn had to squint at them to guess their species— jaguars, he thought.

As they moved toward this grand gate they saw Asher, Fionnghal and Katchy moving away from it. They were followed by a male black jaguar and a tigress. These latter two stopped at the gate, and the jaguar raised a respectful paw at Asher. Quinn noticed the frayed, grey spindles in his pads, the sunken wrinkles around his luxurious, black face, and a halting stoop to his gait; he was an old cat, although his elegant amber cloak seemed to hide most of his frailties from view.

The tigress, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. She was young— well, not _young_ young— maybe only a little older than Fionnghal, and her electric green eyes blazed with cold confidence. While the old jaguar held up his paw respectfully she waved hers flippantly, and as he dutifully waited for Asher's party to move out into the square before turning his back on them she wheeled about on her heels instantly.

The tigress only turned her head at them very briefly, and what she had to say was _not _respectful:

"Oh: next time, Prince Shope, maybe you can leave your _pets_ at home..."

Fionnghal walked with her head bowed; Quinn couldn't see her face, but he guessed that she was grinding her teeth. When he noticed her tail swishing about in an erratic arc the boy smirked a little.

"...after all," the tigress continued, "I'm sure we don't have the proper kibble for your dog, or the right chunks of cheese for your rat."

Fionnghal's head came up abruptly. Her burning eyes were little more than razor slits:

"Okay, I'm gonna cut her head off..."

Her fingers reached for _Curtainrod's _hilt; Katchy grabbed her from behind, tactfully holding her paw down at her side.

"Now, Mistress," he mumbled, "'roll with the punches', you know—"

"I don't have to: _I've_ got a broadsword." She pulled herself away from the raccoon dog. "And I don't need a babysitter." She cocked her head at the boy. "_He _does, though. You keep your eyes on _Qui'ntroshe _for the duration of this trip. You got it, K-dog?"

"Why? Sonic's doing a good job..."

Both Quinn _and _Katchy said this in synch. In response Sonic glared at the boy, and Fionnghal glared at the raccoon dog.

"That's not _his_ job."

Both Sonic and Fionnghal said _that _in synch.

Pretty impressive, all things considered.

The tigress watched them walk across the square, glaring at them with a haughty smirk. Eventually the old jaguar came to her side, whispering, and she nodded to him respectfully. The pair moved back under the gilded arch and the two guards followed.

Sonic crossed his arms, grinning ear-to-ear:

"Unproductive meeting, I take it?"

"Not great," Asher admitted. "Illuminating, though."

The group sat down at a small patio café on one side of the square, shaded by arched stone buttresses. Fionnghal spent her time sulking, eyes fixed on the gilded gate across from them:

"That Pascale: she acts like she's already got the crown on her head!"

"Cut her a break," Asher said. "It can't be easy, being a regent. She's got the whole kitty government on her shoulders, for better or for worse, and that's not a job you can do if you're soft."

"Somehow _you _manage to do it without being a total c—"

"I'vegot _you_ to keep me in line. On top of that, I've also got royal blood. Makes me kinda 'entitled'. And there's a certain security in that feeling, you know. At the very least _other _people think I should lead, regardless of my qualifications. But a regent? They're not qualified by _definition_, so if you wanna get the job done you gotta be a little 'rough'."

"That tigress is the leader of the big cats?" Quinn asked. The boy worked his words around a chocolate-covered swizzle stick— previously in Fionnghal's coffee— and stared at a series of impressive frescoes dotting the stone walls behind them. "And she's not a part of their royal family? What were they called, again? The 'Król'?"

Asher shook his head:

"Pascale's just a regent; she's running Upsilon Tribe in the royal family's place. There hasn't been a Król on the throne for nearly ten years. They've kinda been MIA..."

Quinn scanned the frescoes before him: it was a long series of what looked like family portraits, with individual scenes spread between them. They were all inked with great care, using a blend of beautiful silver paints. The ones furthest down the wall— nearest the gilded gate— were faded with extreme age, but the ones nearest the café beamed with a young and healthy luster. All these families appeared to be cheetahs, their fur accented with glistening golden paint, and in every portrait the family was decked to the nines in royal regalia. The females even seemed to sport what looked like diamond-covered bands over the tips of their tails.

The artwork between the family portraits seemed to show each individual cheetah engaged in some task: one was leading a charge into battle, another was busily tending to a stack of books on a writing desk, and another was decked in coveralls, overseeing some kind of construction project.

The newest paintings were directly across from Quinn and they ended with another cheetah family: an imposing male stood beside a wide-eyed female seated on a divan, a baby nestled in her lap. The little baby was twisted about, busily toying with the diamond-covered tip of its mother's tail. Its back was bare, and Quinn noticed three black stripes running down the baby's back starting at the nape of its neck.

"Speaking of things that make it harder to be a ruler," Asher growled, "I think you were _supposed_ to be with us when we had that meeting with Pascale, weren't you?"

"Sorry." Quinn's speech was garbled as he continued gnawing on his swizzle stick, still studying the frescoes. He didn't sound particularly sorry.

"It all worked out, anyway," Fionnghal said. "Pascale got a call from her Speedster during our meeting, warning her about a little human milling around with the Thallomoor Banshee."

"Still, it must not have made an impression on her," Sonic noted. "Your meeting couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes..."

Fionnghal wagged a bony finger at Sonic:

"But that's just the thing: it _did _leave an impression. Pascale was freaked, no question. She'd heard that same rumors about the _Rainbow Runner_,and about Quinn's appearance, and the confirmation of it nearly stripped the spots off her tail. Believe me. She tried to shrug it off like it was nothing, but her tongue was fumbling over all those condescending insults once she got the news. In a word? She _was_ 'rattled'."

"So the lumber deal isoff?" Sonic asked.

Asher shook his head.

"Nope. Even our current 'war' with Delta Tribe doesn't faze her. I get the impression that Pascale would still back this lumber deal even if we seeded all our trees with flesh-eating ants..."

Sonic stroked his chin:

"Ah, _there's _a thought..."

"Which leaves us with the question of _why _the cats are so desperate for lumber," Fionnghal said. "This whole situation stinks to high heaven—"

"...'cause if I'd just found myself a nice, toxic, invasive species—"

"—and I want to know what the cats will be doing with all that wood _before _they start trying to take it from us—"

"...nothing dramatic: just something that causes hives, or sneezing—"

"—because the gods only know what they could possibly be using it for—"

"...and thatwould've kept _everyone_ off my turf. Seriously: why didn't I think of that?"

Fionnghal faced the hedgehog, snarling:

"Think you can focus, Sonic?"

Sonic shrugged:

"Playing guessing games isn't gonna get us anywhere, will it, Pew? We can't answer any of these questions sitting around a table."

"Which is why some of us have been working." Thadesch wobbled up to the table and took a seat beside Sonic.

"Working _hard_, I hope," Fionnghal said.

The toad nodded.

"I was just reacquainting myself with a few contacts in the kitty-cats' security branch. Helpful chaps, really. And what they had to say was _most_ interesting..."

Asher cocked his brow, eyeing the toad suspiciously:

"Two questions. One: why would they even talk to you? And two: please tell me it doesn't have anything to do with those gigantic water jugs you were carrying in the jeep."

"That second one wasn't a question..."

Asher crossed his arms, scowling.

Thadesch rattled his fat fingers against the tabletop. He smiled demurely.

"Well, the jugs weren't _strictly _filled with water..."

The cottontail leaned back in his chair, lazily gripping his antlers with both paws:

"Gods of my Forefathers! You're telling me that you were carrying—"

"G'nepettah, huh?" Katchy leaned forward. "That's really weird. You know, my sister and I once worked security at a g'nepettah farm. I mean, they grew _more _than that on the farm, but that was kinda the big-ticket security item. We spent most of our time walking the rows, looking for thieves trying to steal the crop. I never saw it get refined, though. I didn't even know the final product was a _liquid_, truth be told. Well, I guess I wouldn't be expected to know that, since the stuff only works its 'magic' on cats—"

"Which is why it's _illegal_ in Ubasti, Thadesch!"

The toad shrugged:

"We wanted info, didn't we?"

"And a kitty _narcotic _was the only way to get it?"

The toad leaned over the table, looking the cottontail right in the eyes:

"Respectfully: it was the _fastest_ way to get it."

"And what if their boarder security guards had caught you with it?"

Thadesch's smile widened:

"Simple: I'd split one of the bottles with them..."

Asher shook his head, grumbling.

"And just how the heck did you manage to find two jugs of that stuff at the drop of a—"

"Getting back to the intelligence," Fionnghal interrupted, "what exactly did you find out, Thadesch?"

"Well, at first glance one might think the kitties were collecting all that lumber to do something silly, like maybe build a giant scratching post—"

"Joke's been done," Sonic growled. "Just spill it: what're the cats doing?"

"I don't know."

Asher again rubbed his gnarled horns.

"Gods help you, Thadesch—"

"But I do know where we can go to find out," the toad said. "Apparently there's a major construction project going on right now. I don't know what they could be using all that lumber for, but I doknow _where_ they're using it..."

Fionnghal leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table.

"Are you pausing for dramatic effect?"

Thadesch cocked his head at Quinn's seat:

"Just thought I'd mention the juvie..."

Everyone looked at Quinn's chair, which was empty. Fionnghal slowly looked over at Katchy:

"Uh...he's gone. Isn't he, K-dog?"

"Yup," the raccoon dog nodded.

"As in: not here, Katchy?"

"Sure looks like it..."

"As in: not present, _babysitter_?"

The raccoon dog's amber eyes slowly widened.

"Oh, he's...he's _gone_!" Katchy leapt up, nearly knocking the table over. "Oh! Uh, just a moment, Mistress! Just a moment!" He went scurrying into the town square, darting frantically amongst the crowds, drawing the strangest looks from baffled felines.

Fionnghal smiled, shaking her head. She pulled a small data pad out of her vest and looked it over, nodding to herself. She set it down on the table.

"GPS?" Thadesch noted. "Put a bug in his clothes, eh?"

"Now how could I possibly do that?" Fionnghal innocently batted her eyelashes. "He never takes that jumpsuit off, does he? But we _did _split an apple before leaving this morning. My half had a worm in it, which was gross..."

Asher smiled.

"Ah: and hishalf had a _bug _in it—"

"Which was tasteless," Thadesch nodded, smiling with approval. He motioned to Katchy, now frantically racing out of the town square. "Uh, should we tell _him_?"

"Eventually," Fionnghal smirked. "It's a good learning experience, isn't it?"

Asher turned to the toad:

"Now, Thadesch: you were about to tell us where, _exactly_, these cats are taking the lumber?"

"First, I must ask: does anybody happen to have any climbing gear on them? Also: nobody's afraid of heights, are they?"

Asher and Fionnghal cocked their brows. Fionnghal squinted.

"You... you don't mean..."

Everyone looked up into the sky, beyond the slate walls of the town square. The Frostblessor's jagged peaks barely crested over the stonework, looming like a broken hand.

"What the hell could they possibly be doing up _there_?" Asher asked.

Sonic leaned back, hands supporting his head as he gazed at the imposing mountain.

"Dunno," he mumbled. "But I think I finally agree with the rest of you: we should probably find out."

II.

Beyond the cold, high walls of the city square, and beyond those endless crowds at the bazaar, he found the field.

And the field was pretty darn nice.

He wormed through the cobbled streets of Ubasti. They were all very dingy and dark. Not unclean, but oppressive. The walls were high, and the lanes narrow. He thought it rather odd that the lanes would be so narrow; the cats all had tails, of course, and while they carried them with a touch more 'discipline' and decorum than, say, a rat like Fionnghal, they were still prone to whipping them about unpredictably. Several times Quinn took an errant wad of fur to the mouth, and at one point a rowdy group of juvenile tigers blitzed past him, one of them slapping him with his tail so hard Quinn nearly fell into the gutter. Actually, he thought that might've been intentional. He took a few angry steps towards the offender, snarling, ready to belt out a challenge.

And then he realized that he was about to pick a fight with a sharp-clawed, razor-toothed, muscle-bound tiger. A tiger that had half-a-foot on him.

"That 'half-a-foot' part seems a little bit irrelevant," Quinn grumbled.

It was kind of like saying a nuclear warhead is more powerful than a shotgun because it comes in a bigger case.

He grew tired of all the eyes on him, and the tails slapping at him, and even the _walls_; the walls somehow felt like they were leaning down over him, _smothering_ him. He drew quick breaths, and for some reason he caught the stale scent of deep earth air, like the air he smelled in Cake Rim. Then, for just a moment, all those ordered stone walls around him seemed to 'devolve', cracking into jagged chunks of carved rock...

He was breathing just a little bit harder. He didn't know why.

And then he smelled... what _was_ that?

He smelled...

Was it...

Was it _blood_?

Hot bile shuttled up through Quinn's throat; he moved along the twists and turns of a widening lane, looking for any possible open space he could find. When he found one it was very unexpected.

And it was pretty darn nice.

The boy stumbled out though a random gate, following a brilliant beam of sunlight just around the corner. All at once he was standing before an endless plain of calm, swaying grass. The scent of lemon and pollen replaced that rotten smell of caves, and a cool wind buffered his face, tousling the dirty blond locks of his hair like teasing fingers. A gentle sloping hill descended for miles, fading into the great, unending grasslands of Uncia. The view was broken only by the stern face of the mighty Frostblessor, looming many miles away.

Quinn blinked. For a moment he thought he was still hallucinating. As he walked slowly across that golden plain, fingers delicately brushing over the knee-high grass, he thought otherwise.

The boy soon came to a curious sight: it was a massive chunk of metal, three times as tall as he was, and as big around as an apartment building. But no, it wasn't just a simple chunk of metal: it was hammed steel, finely pressed over a reinforced skeletal frame. In its prime the entire thing must've shone like a glittering suit of armor, but now it was weathered, mossed over and neglected. Quinn had to circle the thing a few times before the odd contraption made the least bit of sense to him.

He noticed one of the thing's eyes, first.

And that's when he understood the thing's overall shape; it was a massive, mechanical cat's head.

The boy slowly cocked his own head, tilting it at an angle to match the decapitated behemoth before him.

"'kaaaaaay..."

Quinn soon ignored the metal wreck, instead focusing on the tranquil view stretched out before him.

But every few seconds his eyes were drawn behind him, to those soulless, empty metal eyes, glaring at him, glaring at _all _the grassland stretched before him. There wasn't a spot of land that was free of that metal monster's intrusive gaze.

Well, no, actually; there was _one_.

It was a tough climb, but at least the weathered metal was rough and dented; he found enough purchase for his feet to get the rest of his body all the way up to the top, and he was sweating freely once he reached it. Once he was up there he splayed out on the flat surface, limbs spread wide, panting. He unzipped his jumpsuit to the navel, baring his upper body, and then he rested his head to one side, closing his eyes, and let the warm sun gently bake his skin.

He thought about Sonic, and what he'd told the boy about 'freezing up'. How it was okay to feel hesitant about taking a life— even a life as vile as that evil Dame Commander's— and that it was 'good' that he hadn't just gone and shot her clean through her heart without hesitating.

'_No shame in being afraid to take a life, kid..._'

Quinn shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"He just... he didn't understand. What I was saying..."

He hadn't felt any fear up on top of that emerald fragment, staring down that damselfly through the jagged metal fork in his slingshot. Not at that moment, at least. He felt something else, entirely. And it was that 'something else' that shamed him.

It was that 'something else' that frightened him, now.

The boy balled his fists. Right now, the thing he wanted most in the whole world was something to _hit_...

"Hey!"

Quinn opened his eyes very briefly, but then closed them once again.

"You, up there! Hey!"

Again he opened his eyes. He blinked, at first confused, but then angered.

"Gonna make me come up there after you? Get down here!"

Suddenly a small stone arced through the air; it landed on the metal surface, rolling along its battered, sun-bleached folds, and then lazily bumped into Quinn's thigh. The boy snarled, rising to his feet. He moved to the edge of the behemoth and stared down at the ground below.

A quartet of juveniles stood some distance from the base of the metal head. It was mixed company: a, lion, tiger, jaguar and ocelot. The youths stood in a row, and before them a fifth juvenile stood. She was much closer to Quinn's perch, with her paws cemented on her hips, and a vicious scowl burning over her face. She was a cheetah, he realized, maybe close to his own age, or maybe just a little older. All the juveniles wore a minimal amount of clothing— all the better to play in on a warm summer day, he guessed— but the cheetah girl took the cake for skimpiness, wearing a thin gray tube top and matching short bottoms, much like a volleyball uniform. It took the boy a moment to recognize her as a cheetah because the colors on her body were all wrong; the girl's spots all bore a glistening gray tone in them, forming rosettes instead of simple spots. Her fur between them was a muted shade of light gray instead of gold, but telltale strands of yellow hair betrayed the curious dye-job. And the biggest giveaway was her eyes: they were two brilliant pools of electric green, burning bright and strong. All that was set against the muted colors of her painted fur, and the mismatch was ridiculous.

Quinn stared down at the girl, bemused. Notwithstanding her odd appearance, Quinn hardly missed a beat:

"Where's the fire, kitty?"

The cheetah girl blinked at him with surprise. She slowly tilted her head, as if she didn't know what to make of Quinn. But her electric eyes didn't lose their confidence, and she hardly missed a beat, either:

"Get off of that, you! This isn't a jungle gym."

"Just what is it to you?" Quinn asked.

"That's a _monument_," one of the juveniles behind the cheetah said. "_Cat _monument."

"And you'redefiling it!" The cheetah girl crossed her arms, baring two oversized fangs in her immature mouth. "That's even _worse_ than starting a fire, out here!"

Quinn looked down at the busted metal surface; he scuffed his shoes on it, unimpressed.

"It isn't much of a monument, is it?"

The cheetah girl took a step forward:

"That's 'Tygherbee's Terror', you ugly little troll! Show some respect!"

Again, Quinn looked down at the ruined metal structure, frowning:

"Not really 'terrifying' is it? At least, not without a _body_ it isn't. And who's 'Tygherbee', anyway?"

The cheetah girl extended a paw, brandishing a set of blunt white claws:

"Come on down here and I'll tell you."

"Yeah! Give him hell, Lynxia!" One of the juveniles barked.

Quinn zipped up the top half of his jumpsuit.

"Relax," he said. "I didn't know it was such a big deal, alright? I'm gonna come down, and you're gonna put those claws away, aren't you? No need to make this fire any bigger, is there?"

The cheetah girl cocked her head in the other direction, eyes narrowed at the boy, but she grunted indifferently and put her paw down at her side. Quinn clumsily got down from the metal mountain, coming face-to-face with her.

"Who are you, anyway?" The girl asked. "Where're you from?"

"Name's _Qui'ntroshe_. I'm with Theta Tribe."

Lynxia blinked in confusion; she turned to her compatriots, all of whom looked to the jaguar among them. The jaguar put a finger to her lips, staring at the ground, and then she looked up at Linxia:

"Uh... that's _sloth_, I think..."

"He doesn't look like a sloth," the ocelot beside her said.

"Maybe someone shaved him," Lynxia crossed her arms, smiling malevolently.

Quinn bared his teeth.

"And your name is 'Lynxia', huh? So, is that like a proper cheetah name, or the name of a sorry little snow-leopard-_wannabe_?"

The four cats behind Lynxia put their paws to their mouths, erupting into a loud chorus of 'ooohs'.

The girl's electric eyes widened, and then quickly narrowed. Those two oversized fangs in her mouth sunk down over her lip; she snarled.

"You're trying to put out a fire by adding fuel to it, little _human_!"

Another chorus of 'ooohs' erupted behind the cheetah girl.

"Lynxia: that's a— a human?" The tiger gibbered.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I've heard our elders talking about humans. Describing 'em, you know? And I recognize the _ugly _in him." She looked back at Quinn. "As for me? Yeah, my name's Lynxia. Lynxia Kurteni, of the Kurteni clan—"

"Obviously," Quinn grumbled.

"And I'm a _very _proper cheetah, little boy!"

"So what's with all that gaudy body paint?" Quinn asked. "Are you some kind of cosplayer?"

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

Quinn blinked, staring down at his feet.

"I'm... not really sure," he said.

"You talk funny," the ocelot said.

Lynxia smiled, nodding at Quinn:

"Mmm. If he keeps running his mouth he's gonna start _lookin' _funny, too."

The cheetah girl slowly circled around Quinn, surveying his body with probing eyes; the boy stood in place, but watched her suspiciously as she walked.

"Gotta say," Lynxia perched her lips, "You're not _exactly _what I expected a human to look like. You were on that ship that went down last month, weren't you?"

Quinn nodded.

"Big thing. Looked like a shooting star when it fell over Uncia. Where are all the _other_ humans, then? They hanging out in the woods? Hidin'? An' why are you out _here_? Maybe they kicked you out of the group because you were annoying to them?"

Quinn's teeth cemented together.

Suddenly the cheetah girl leaned forward, pressing her nose against the boy's upper chest. She took a whiff even as Quinn scrambled back, pushing her away.

"Yooo! Then again, maybe it's your stench. There's something _seriously _rotten, there. Wonder if all humans smell like rotten eggs, or if it's just you. No wonder they turned you out..."

The four cats behind her snickered at this. Lynxia turned her head to them, smiling. She played to her 'audience'.

"But then you'd think his whole _family_ would be outcast with him, wouldn't you? After all: you'd think that kind of a stench would run down a whole family line, wouldn't it?" She faced Quinn again. "That kind of a stench usually does, doesn't it, little hu—"

That was about as far as she got.

Quinn's fist connected with the left side of the cheetah's jaw, right at the corner of her lip. Lynxia's head whipped about and the girl went down into the dirt. She got to a kneeling position very quickly, opening and closing her jaw, and then she touched the fringes of her lip, feeling the small river of blood forming there. Her green eyes were now almost all pupils, widened beyond belief.

The four cats behind her froze up, not even daring to let out an 'oooh'. Silence ruled the plain, broken only by the faintest sound of a soft breeze rippling across the swaying grassland.

Lynxia got to her feet, again opening and closing her jaw, and she faced Quinn. The boy stood at the ready, hazel eyes fierce, both fists balled.

"Careful, Lynxia!" The tiger cried. "You better watch out for all of his special human powers!"

The jaguar standing beside him crossed her arms. She scowled at the tiger and sighed.

"What?" The tiger asked.

Lynxia ignored the peanut gallery; she slowly raised one paw, marred with some of the blood from her lip, and tensed her fingers. Five blunt claws slowly rose from her paw. She spoke to Quinn, her words deathly quiet:

"Do you have claws, little human?"

Quinn un-balled one fist and held up his hand, flexing his fingers about. He shook his head.

Lynxia nodded. She slowly relaxed her fingers. Her claws sunk back down into the folds of her paw. She balled her fingers into fists, and then she narrowed her eyes.

Then she let out a scream and leapt at Quinn.

The rest was kind of a blur.

III.

Fionnghal took pity on Katchy when he returned to their table, handing over the GPS tracking pad. He darted off in search of Quinn, leaving Asher and Thadesch to make preparations to travel to the Frostblessor. Thadesch's contacts told him that travel to and from the mountain was heavily restricted; it had been so ever since lumber shipments began arriving in Uncia. They'd need the toad's 'expertise' to discover a safe route in. Specifically, they needed to know which sentry outposts they might be able to bribe along the way, which ones they could force their way through, and which one's they'd do best to avoid.

Fionnghal stayed at the café while the males made their preparations. She kept her eyes on the gilded gate leading to the cats' royal temple while also monitoring their communication frequencies with her earpiece radio. At the moment their little delegation was a tolerated guest in the city, but the cats were certainly skittish, and they were most definitely hiding something, so the situation was subject to change.

Sonic sprawled out in his chair, legs up on the table, arms over his face, seemingly dozing.

"You're not gonna help them track Quinn down?" She asked.

The hedgehog's spiky quills waved about as he shook his head.

"Mmm. Give the kid an inch. He wants a little alone time. Maybe he needs it. I don't know. Anyway, he won't go far."

"How was he on the road? Not too sulky, I hope?"

A smile wormed over Sonic's face, barely visible beneath his arms.

"Actually, I got the impression that he was kinda pissed off at _you_."

"I cut his meat rations after he tried to sneak into the mess tent. But that was his fault, really."

"Still, could serve to make him a little more 'disaffected', couldn't it? If he's really into that whole meat-eating thing, anyway. Seriously, all you filthy omnivores, and that nasty little habit—"

Fionnghal held up a paw, shaking her head:

"Don't start with that, Sonic. Just _don't_."

"—your obsession with those little, roasted mounds of skinned muscle you _so_ crave—"

"—'cause it's _so tasty_. Oh, and hedgehogsare omnivores, too, last time I checked."

"_Sonic _hedgehogs aren't." His impish smile widened.

"Maybe you aren't a true hedgehog, then. Ever think of that?"

"Or maybe I'm just more evolved than certain other individuals, huh?"

"Or maybe you're just a f—"

All of a sudden Fionnghal's half-finished coffee exploded, sending lukewarm liquid splashing out in all directions. The rat started at this, and then she examined her cup; a piece of cracked nutshell floated in the coffee's remains. Fionnghal looked around her, finding no one who could have lobbed such a thing. Then she looked _above _her.

Fringe sat perched high above them, lounging on top of the stone archway high overhead, basking in the sunlight. She was gnawing on a shelled tree nut. The chaffinch looked down at Fionnghal with all the reverence a lounging queen might give a commoner while borne through the streets on her litter. She made a dismissive gesture of apology before going back to her snack.

"On second thought," Fionnghal said, "I guess I shouldn't be trying so hard to make anyone else 'disaffected'. We've got enough disaffected personnel around us as it is. It's a sign of the times, I guess."

"Or a symptom of your personality..."

Fionnghal squinted and cocked her head; she plastered a few fingers over her earpiece, straining to hear. After a minute she lowered her paw.

"The _Egg Viper's _on the move," she said. "Came out of the Dolamiram a few hours ago."

"Headed for Uncia?"

The rat shook her head. "Its trajectory is more eastward, probably moving toward the coast. Not Rocciafort, though; further south." Fionnghal shrugged. "Who knows what Eggman's doing? Only thing I know is that it can't be good."

For a moment there was silence between them. Fionnghal finally looked up at Sonic, lip in her teeth:

"You know, Sonic, our whole geopolitical situation is bad enough as it is. And Eggman... Eggman _isn't _exactly helping anything..."

"He is a bit of a wildcard," Sonic admitted.

"He's more like a _wildfire_, Sonic. His ultimate goal, if he ever achieves it, could ruin what's left of this planet. And his influence over the species he has under his thumb right now is dangerous. And the species he might draw into his cause, well, Delta Tribe's operations are only spreading that fire—"

Sonic pulled his arm away from his face, sitting up. He glared at the rat with venomous eyes:

"The whole _world _is on fire, Pew! Just what do you want from me, huh?"

The rat sighed, toying with the handle of her coffee cup.

"Back at Cake Rim— what you did with the Dame Commander, just taking her right up into the _Viper's _bridge... standing _right in front _of Eggman..."

Sonic's face grew exceptionally cold.

"...I would have killed to be in that position," Fionnghal said. "Because, then, I could've saved us all some _serious _trouble down the line—"

"You're talking about offing him, I take it?"

Fionnghal's blue eyes bled a cold frost as she spoke:

"One slash of the sword... Sonic, I'm talking about putting out a wildfire. That's all—"

Sonic stood up from the table and leaned down over the rat.

"Eggman is a _symptom _of what's wrong with this planet, Pew. He's _not _the disease. And killing him would do nothing but spread that fire, and you know it. Drop him and Tatu's in charge. Drop Tatu and the Dolamiram Wolf Pack takes the reins. Drop _them _and the Dames have a go at things. Think that would turn out any better for you?"

"But it wouldn't be Eggman. And it _wouldn't _be a human, either. You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sonic. A whole lot of... 'baggage' would die with Eggman—"

Sonic put one finger in front of Fionnghal's face, wagging it sternly:

"Let's get one thing _very _clear right now, Pew: I... will... _not_... go up against Eggman, period. So long as his interests don't conflict with mine I won't raise one damned finger against him. Do you get that?"

The hedgehog again collapsed into his chair, putting his head back and one arm over his eyes.

Fionnghal nodded, resting back in her seat with a sigh.

"Back at the compound, when you came to our aid: was that because you had an 'interest' to protect, too?"

Sonic barely looked at the rat out of the fold of his elbow. He scoffed.

"Maybe," he grumbled. "But my interest _in_ my 'interests' only goes so far. If you go for Eggman's throat, Pew, and actually try to take him out, you'd be asking me to make a decision. And if you forced me to do that, well, I _wouldn't_ do that."

Fionnghal stared down at the table for some time. Eventually she nodded.

"Fair enough," she whispered.

She looked back up at the hedgehog. Sonic reclined in his chair with the outward appearance of upmost ease: casual slouching, legs akimbo, and head back. But she saw more in his posture: the tensed muscles twitching under his fur, the uneasy glint in his eyes that he tried hiding from view, and the restlessness in his legs that he willed to be still.

"How've you been sleeping lately, anyway?" She asked.

The hedgehog scoffed.

"Better than you, probably. At least I have a roof over my head."

"Open air's not that bad," she said. "Fresh air's nice, at least. Although Quinn tends to kick a bit in his sleep..." The rat leaned forward, elbows propped on the table. "But how are youdoing Sonic? Really, I mean?"

Again the hedgehog opened one eye, absently looking over at her.

Fionnghal spread her paws to either side, motioning to the empty café:

"It's just us here..."

"You're the _last _one I'd talk to about something like that, Pew—"

"And the _only _one, probably."

Sonic looked away, briefly, before sitting up and leaning forward, gloved hands clasped on the tabletop. He shook his head.

"Do you remember when I used to sneak into the crèche at night? Come to your bed and hide in there with you, even while the matrons made their rounds?"

Fionnghal smiled, nodding.

"I remember you used to bring those storybooks."

"You never got a lot of good stuff to read in the crèche." Sonic shrugged. "I guess an assassin doesn't necessarily need to have experience in comparative literature. Do you remember the more, uh... 'hardcore' stuff?"

"The ghost stories, you mean?" Fionnghal looked to one side, shivering under her fur.

The hedgehog looked at her with an impish smirk: "Even after a full day of exploration in the Mischief— digging up beds of giant earthworms, braving a subterranean plateau of spider's nests, finding those enormous bat caves beneath the city streets—"

"Mmmm. As I recall, I had to drag your cowardly little rear end though half of those places, kicking and screaming—"

"_But_," Sonic held up a finger, "a few stories from a few little books and your fur got so stiff I thought it might pop right off your body."

"That was really the only kind of stuff that could faze me, back then," she admitted. "They trained us to take on _living _foes in the crèche, you know. They trained us how to make animals that were alive become _not alive_. I didn't know how I could ever possibly handle an animal that wasn't living to begin with..."

"Do you remember that one story: 'The Remnant'?"

Fionnghal thought about it for a moment.

"Yeah, I do. It was the story about that soldier, right? The one from a great war, fought before all recorded history. He was a Clydesdale, and he fell in battle, but then his spirit rose up again. He prepared to fight for his cause, once more. But the battle was long since over, and the ghost had no place in the world, so he wandered endlessly, always at the ready for a battle that would never come, looking to serve a purpose that would never be fulfilled."

She looked over at Sonic to see if she was right about the story, but the hedgehog's eyes were distant. He was staring at the royal murals across from them, but he stared _through _them, looking at nothing in particular.

"You wanted to know how I'm feeling?" He asked. "Well, I'm feeling like that. Like a 'remnant'. Whatever cause and whatever purpose I had when I was younger— when I could have actually _done _something constructive in this world— that's all passed. This is a world that doesn't need my skills, or my interference, anymore. Even if I tried using my abilities, my legs _or _my mouth, that's no real solution. It's just adding fuel to the wildfire..."

The hedgehog got up from the table, shaking his head.

"Pew... once we've sorted out this whole mystery with the Uncia cats, I really do have to ask you to leave. Not threaten, and not demand, but _ask_. Thallomoor's no place for you all. You should go and find some allies you can really work with, if you can. In any event, you shouldn't be hanging out with a ghost..."

The rat lay back in her chair, resting her hands behind her head.

"Do you remember the rest of that story, Sonic? 'The Remnant', I mean?"

The hedgehog looked back at her:

"No. That was it, wasn't it? Guy roams undead for all eternity. Kinda memorable..."

"That's not all of it. You can't remember the ending?"

Sonic looked down at his shoes.

"Ending? No..."

"The ghost came across an animal, one day. It was one of the descendants from an enemy soldier: his great-great-grandson, or something. The ghost readied his sword, charged, and then..."

Sonic tilted his head, blinking.

"You _really_ don't remember?" She asked.

Sonic shook his head. He walked off, waving a dismissive hand. Fionnghal rested her chin on one paw and stared at the line of royal murals.

There was a hunched figured standing before the last portrait, the one showing the imposing male cheetah standing beside his seated wife and their young child, busily playing with its mother's diamond-studded tail. The figure standing before the mural pulled back a ratty black hood, revealing the head of an ancient, fragile leopardess. The female gazed at the family portrait for a long time, wrinkly folds around her eyes quivering. After a time she produced a small pot and brush; she went to work on part of the mural, giving a light touch-up to the silver and gold paint. She was done in a matter of minutes. She tottered off slowly, but only after gazing at her handiwork for a very long while.

Fionnghal could readily identify the part of the mural the leopardess worked on: fresh, wet paint glistened along the brow and body of the baby cheetah, standing out boldly against the cold stone wall.

Fionnghal's earpiece crackled to life: Asher was on the other end.

"We've got an 'in' to the Frostblessor," he said. "At least, we _think_ we do. Have you noticed any activity at the kitty temple?"

"No," Fionnghal said. "Pascale and her entourage are quiet as lambs. No foot traffic at all."

"Understood. Meet up with us about a click outside Ubasti's western gate as soon as Katchy collars the human juvie—"

"Ah, Mistress..." a voice interrupted.

Fionnghal tilted her head.

"Katchy? That you? You find Quinn, yet? He in good shape?"

"Ah... well... you see... _yes_. That's the answer to the _first _question..."

Fionnghal's brow narrowed:

"And my second question?"

"Uh... well, that one's a bit more complicated..."

IV.

Fionnghal found Katchy in a dingy tenement row near one of the city gates. It was far from the best part of town. The rat's patients were fraying as much as the ratty drop cloths that passed for doorframes in the building doorways.

"Simple question, K-Dog: 'is Quinn alright'?"

"Uh, well, he _says _that he is..." The raccoon dog stammered as he led the rat along the winding streets and up to a particular domicile. "Oh, uh, by the way: are we all ready to head out to the Frostblessor, yet?"

Fionnghal touched her sternum:

"_We _are. Quinn isn't going, and _you _aren't going, either, because I want you to watch Quinn. Think you can do a better job of it than you have been, doggie?"

"Y— yes, I think so," Katchy said. "Um, now, _about _Quinn, you see, you should know that—"

The pair reached the doorway and Fionnghal shot him a withering stare:

"I'll assess the situation myself, Katchy. I've got eyes, you know, and I can make just as much sense of things as you can!"

Fionnghal parted the ratty drop cloth covering the door and stepped into the room beyond.

She blinked. And then she blinked again.

"Uh..."

Quinn sat before a small fire pit in the center of the room. Beside him a young female cheetah also squatted, holding up Quinn's bare right arm. Half the boy's upper body was coated in a strange pattern of muted spots and dun-colored paints, simulating rosette-studded fur. Half his face was painted, too. The rest of him was 'tattooed': a purple bruise under one eye, a swollen lip with fresh blood staunched by a torn strip of cloth, and a tiny gash along his forehead gummed over with medicinal gel.

The girl cheetah was in no better shape; her fur was bedraggled and dirty, her lip was also busted, and one of her eyes swollen from a well-placed fist. Fionnghal at once recognized her awkward squat: she'd been hit in the ribs, or maybe a kidney, and was trying not to put pressure on her bruised innards.

Fionnghal extended her paws to either side, mouth agape, shaking her head.

Quinn held up his free arm and raised a finger. The act seemed painful, and he winced briefly as he did so.

"Ah, okay: I know what you're gonna say, and I can explain all of this..."

He looked over at the girl cheetah, and then down at his painted torso, and then back at the rat:

"Uh... Well, okay, actually, I don't think I can..."


	21. Second Laws

_Author's Note:_

_Someone recently showed me a very cool mapmaking program. It uses fractal math to generate random landmasses based on initial user input, and then it approximates weather patterns and terrain characteristics. It won't generate a world with Skyrim-level detail, mind you, but it is pretty nifty, and it helped me figure out a rough geography for Tribes' version of Mobius. I'd put the map up for viewing, but obviously FF-dot-net disallows external linking of any sort, to ANY site. They have a compulsion to treat their members like little children.  
><em>

_Well, to be fair, I suppose a lot of their members ARE actually children..._

_The curious can PM for a link, I suppose. It's on Imageshack.  
><em>

"Second Laws"

I.

_Plosh... plosh... plosh..._

Her claw boots sloshed through the gooey black mud outside the combat arena. Harsh white light met her yellow eyes, and they beamed off her battered exoskeleton.

She passed one Dame standing by the wayside, surveying her with reverence:

"Combatant." That Dame put a fist to her chest and bowed her head. She was wounded, her armor bent along the breastplate and strips of cloth wrapped about her arms and legs. Dried remnants of yellow blood lay all along the fringes of her armor. She was not the only wounded damselfly standing outside the arena.

It was easier to count the spectators who _weren't _injured, at this point.

Bellesailes was certainly far from springtime fresh, but she was still in far better shape than the mob of Dames standing in her path. Almost all of them wore splints, or leaned on metal rails for support, or sat in the mud, unable to even stand. She was still standing. _She_ was still in fighting condition. In point of fact, it was _very _easy to count the number of damselflies in the building who were not injured.

There were only two...

"Combatant." Another Dame in her way saluted. And then another.

"Combatant," a Dame with a cloth tied around her forehead saluted.

"Combatant," a Dame with a brace on her leg acknowledged her.

Bellesailes nodded at each of them briefly, not pausing in her stride, and then slung her body up and over the railing, landing in the circular pit at the center of the chamber.

Cheers rose from all sides of the arena as another damselfly approached from the opposite side of the ring. A line of Dames gave the same greeting— calling her 'combatant'— and then she, too, slung herself over the arena railing, landing deftly on the ground. She was battered and bruised herself, roughly on par with Bellesailes.

Bellesailes' eyes flitted all about her opponent's body, surveying every nook and fold: her dented helm, bruised thigh, a piece of exoskeleton bent partway in along her ribcage, a half-patched tear in one of her ears—

_Ding_!

The two damselflies approached each other very slowly, each crouched at the ready. When they were within about three feet they nodded at each other.

Then they made their moves.

Anyone who's ever seen two alley cats fight— say, two toms scrapping with each other over a molly in the middle of night—would have an idea of what Dame combat entailed: bodies flying about in a messy whirlwind of claws and teeth, movements entirely unpredictable, contact broken and restored at random intervals, punctuated by predatory circling and guttural growls. Technically, it was all one big 'girl fight'. But the girls in question were eight-foot tall insectoid cyborgs holding nothing back, going for each other's throats. It tends to lose some of its appeal to the casual viewer.

But not to Bellesailes. She _relished_ it.

Her opponent spun behind her, striking metal greaves against one of the fleshy gaps in her back, where her wings once rested. This brought Bellesailes to her knees, screeching. Her opponent sought to follow this up with a knock-out blow to Bellesailes' head.

That wasn't really gonna work out for her.

Bellesailes ducked the blow, jabbing her elbow into her opponent's broken exoskeleton, forcing that already bent bar of metal right into her side. The Dame howled at this, reeling backward, and Bellesailes took the opportunity to launch an unguided roundhouse kick behind her, where she thought her opponent's torn ear would be.

She was accurate.

Her opponent went down into the mud. Bellesailes knew what the other Dame was feeling now— vertigo, red spots in the eyes, a foghorn blaring in her head— and so she chose this moment to end it. She flipped her opponent with her boot, pinning her to one side. The distraught Dame must have known what was coming next, because she fought like hell, and she howled like a banshee.

It wouldn't save her.

Bellesailes landed in the mud with her, gripping her opponent's throat with her forearm and cementing her powerful leg muscles around her midsection. Her opponent thrashed about, clawing behind her, tearing at the skin of Bellesailes' shoulders and arms, drawing rivulets of buttery blood out of her flesh. Bellesailes ignored these attacks, craning her head away from the struggling Dame and maintaining a firm lock on her neck.

Those struggles grew more sluggish, more unfocused. Bellesailes felt her opponent's heart hammering away, pulsing faster and in more erratic spurts. Eventually the damselfly made a loud, messy burping noise and a snot bubble exploded from her slit nostrils. The next noises out of her might have come from a pig.

Bellesailes dropped her opponent in the mud, immediately rolling her onto her back. She put one hand to the unconscious Dame's throat, and another to her chest, head tilted analytically.

After a moment Bellesailes rose, and there was respectful silence throughout the arena. She quickly tromped out of the mud, heading for the exit. Damselflies surrounded her, laying hands on her shoulders:

"_Commander_," one of them said.

"_Commander_," another confirmed.

Many other Dames followed suit, but Bellesailes ignored them, moving to a group of warthog medics standing far away from all the frivolities. They immediately started unrolling bandages and applying salves to Bellesailes' cuts, but she shooed them away, pointing at the combat arena:

"That one," she said. "Fractured ribcage, broken jaw, bruised throat, and probably one hell of a concussion. Staunch the bleeding and keep her awake. She shouldn't be sleeping."

The hogs nodded and then waded through the sea of damselflies, trying to reach the unconscious Dame at the arena center. Many of the damselflies watched them move off, and Bellesailes took this opportunity to lean against a support beam in the shadows, resting her cold iron head guard against the grimy beam. Half metal or not she was hot, and her body burned in the cold building; steam curled up through the folds of her exoskeleton, and she flexed her fists while the vapors swirled. She hocked a wad of bloody spit onto the floor, and even that roiled with steam in the cold air.

"Something about an open flame..."

Again, she flexed and relaxed her narrow fingers.

Two damselfly grunts soon arrived at the arena, leading Tatu through the building and into the shadows where Bellesailes stood, her back to him.

"Are you girls all finished with your little pissing contest, yet?" He growled. "Are you the new Dame Commander?"

Bellesailes stepped around the support beam and into the light; Tatu started when he saw her.

"B— _Bellesailes_?"

"Commander of Delta Tribe's Aerial Assault Unit," she snarled, wiping a train of blood from her nose. "Reporting for duty."

"I, uh, didn't expect you to—"

"Eggman gave his blessing for me to compete," she said. "And I'm still the strongest of us Dames. What exactly is 'unexpected' there?"

That seemed to get Tatu by the tongue.

"Why are you here?" She asked.

"Eggman is mobilizing," he said. "Location's classified, but it's somewhere out on the western coast, south of Rocciaforte._ Viper's _already enroute."

The Dame nodded. She motioned for the two dragonflies to follow her as she and Tatu walked past the combat arena.

"No offense," Tatu surveyed the Dame from head to toe, "But you look like hell, sweetie."

The warthog medics busily tended to the injured damselfly in the mud; she was very slowly regaining consciousness. Bellesailes motioned to her as they walked:

"You should see the _other _girl..."

"How was the competition this time around, anyway?"

"Not problematic," she growled. The Dame rotated one of her shoulders, grimacing. "_Stronger_, maybe..."

"Give it another year and it might be worse, huh?"

They reached an elevator and entered it. The accompanying Dames stood outside, waiting to see if they were permitted along. Bellesailes lazily waved a hand, motioning them inside. The elevator rocked and swayed on rusty chains as it shuttled upward.

"Worse? Why is that?" Bellesailes asked Tatu.

The armadillo coughed politely, glancing over at the two other Dames.

Bellesailes grunted in annoyance, shaking her head:

"I don't care what they hear. We're _Dames_. We're not schemers, and we're not political."

"Unlike, what? _Other _species?" Tatu crossed his arms.

Bellesailes rolled her eyes.

"Respectfully..."

The armadillo looked out one of the dingy windows in the elevator; only sooty metal plates and grease-covered chains were visible beyond.

"What I meant is that you might find the competition a little stiffer next year. I've heard that damselflies tend to, uh, well, lose a step or two once they get into their twenties..."

The Dame walked up to him:

"My age is irrelevant, Tatu. Passion's what counts. That's what wins a tournament."

"You're a 'passionate' creature, Bellesailes?"

"About some things..."

Again Tatu looked back at the other damselflies uneasily; he faced Bellesailes again:

"All I meant is that it seems like you had yourself a good run as the Dame Commander. Maybe it was time to let someone _else _take on all the burdens, and all the risks—"

"Eggman's quest is not finished yet," she growled. "And so _I _am not finished, yet."

The elevator ground to a halt; the doors craned open, revealing a brilliant white desert landscape stretched out in all directions. The Dolamiram caldera loomed in the distance, shimmering beyond a sun-drenched plain of burning sand.

"You might not understand my sentiment, Tatu. You're a much _colder_ creature, aren't you?"

The armadillo crossed his arms:

"Don't know if you got the biology right, on that. You're an insect, and I'm a _mammal_, so—"

"_Not _biology. When it comes to the Eggman, I mean. You believe in our arrangement with him, but you do not believe in the man," Bellesailes said. "That's obvious. Despicable, too, but I'm really no animal to judge..."

"Doesn't seem to stop you, my dear..."

The pair walked out into the desert. Bellesailes' escorts waited inside the elevator; they followed only when the pair was out of earshot.

"Mind if I ask you a question?" Tatu grumbled.

The Dame cocked her head to one side, nodding.

"Why didn't you call me out on Operation Silverheart. To the boss man, I mean?"

The Dame waited some time before answering.

"I don't really know," she admitted. "I suppose, first of all, it'd have been a hassle for all my girls to reorganize under a new leader's banner..."

"Heartwarming," Tatu scoffed.

"Did you want honesty, or lies? But, on top of all that, we've worked together this long. While you can do things that are stupid, you're not incompetent, generally—"

"Seriously," the armadillo motioned to his crusty cheeks, "_blushing_."

"But, even more than that, I suppose it's because you _are _cold." The Dame stopped walking, looking back at the armadillo. "I admit: sometimes I run too 'hot'. Sometimes my behavior isn't... appropriate. Sometimes it can be rather 'clumsy'."

The armadillo shrugged:

"You'restill young, Bellesailes. Uh, 'coldness'— if you really wanna call it that—that comes with age."

The Dame shook her head:

"I'm _middle_-_aged_. For a Dame, at least. We can't afford to be young. We can't afford to be _clumsy_."

A sandstorm billowed in the distance; a convoy of jeeps raced along the terrain far ahead of them.

"Well," Tatu said, "maybe some of my 'coldness' will rub off on you, Bellesailes." The armadillo lumbered off to meet the approaching convoy.

The Dame nodded, crossing her arms.

"If that's so, then maybe you'll pick-up on my heat, Tatu."

One of his oversized feet stumbled on a pile of sand. Tatu righted himself and spun about, his sunken eyes wide:

"Uh, _what_?"

Bellesailes stepped forward, arms still crossed:

"Maybe your influence will make me colder, but maybe _my _influence will make you a little bit warmer. To Eggman's cause, at least."

Tatu grumbled, crossing his own arms:

"The old man's got me under contract, Bellesailes. Services _for _services. And that's all he can expect from me, or from anyone else in the Delta Tribe Regulars. We're grateful, and so we're _beholden_, that's all. As for his greater 'cause', well, he and his wolves can pursue their little ideology all they want. I'll pass—"

The Dame stepped forward, scowling:

"Justice is no simple ideology!"

"Revenge is," Tatu said. "Speaking of which, I managed to learn what the objective for this mission is. Eggman's going after a specific target: a hedgehog named Usahla Rose."

Bellesailes' eyes widened.

"_Usahla_?"

"Eggman and the Elites are moving out in force. You can imagine that the doggies are pretty darn eager to go. I'm only taking a skeleton crew; this isn't the kind of fight I want my troops on point for. But Eggman's also requested some support from our precious little Aerial Assault Unit, as well as their commander. Well, you chose to fight for that position, so I guess that means you're coming along. Wanna ride with us to the airstrip?"

The Dame shook her head, looking behind her:

"_I need wings_!" She barked.

Her two escorts immediately took to the air, their gossamer wings buzzing in a blurry curtain. The pair came to either side of Bellesailes and plucked her from the ground by the armpits, suspending her a few feet off the sand.

"I'll meet the _Viper _enroute," she said.

"Mmm. So you're gonna go help him out with that whole revenge thing, huh? Help put a bullet into Mister Rose's brain?" Tatu looked up at the Dame. "Might wanna be careful about that: it may not be as simple as you think."

"Sometimes— every now and then, Tatu— justice_ is_ that simple."

"Rather 'cold' of you to say, my dear..."

Bellesailes' escorts rocketed up into the air, and they all quickly disappeared into the brilliant white sky.

II.

Eggman stood before the narrow rock-carved window, hands delicately clasped behind his back. The afternoon sun burned red on the horizon, peeking out behind a bank of costal clouds, and it cast a long shadow on the floor behind him. His dark eyeglasses burned under the sun's rays, like the blackest shards of obsidian.

Gunfire still raged in the city streets below. It was a rather complicated area to secure. The town's slender buildings and steep, winding streets clung to the mountainside like a patch of moss on a stone. The arrangement of buildings was actually quite impressive, and the population density they achieved was nothing short of a marvel. In an untroubled state of mind, Eggman would be quite enamored of the city.

He was _not_ currently enamored of it.

Civilians ran screaming through the streets below him, and not far behind a platoon of metal-masked wolves marched in formation, launching short bursts of gunfire into the air at regular intervals. Far away on the other side of town a large mushroom-shaped rock jutted from the cliff; a rocket suddenly sailed out from it, borne from one of the city's last defensive outposts. Its target, the _Egg Viper_, danced nimbly through the sky, turning its head in the missile's direction. With a hail of heavy gunfire the enemy missile was torn apart; it fell harmlessly out of the sky, heading for the rocky shoreline far below them.

The _Viper _snaked through the air, pointing that oversized antenna on its back at the mushroom rock. Within seconds the defensive outpost went dark, its power entirely drained.

The Brass walked up behind Eggman:

"We have captured the city's ruling body," the wolf said. "That should greatly convince all remaining security forces to stand down. Of course, we still have other assets..."

The stone floor beneath Eggman's feet rumbled; a blood-curdling howl erupted from the streets below. It was a mechanical roar of pain and rage, fury unending.

And there was something canine there, too.

But just barely.

Houndstooth suddenly burst through one of the walls of a building below. The mechanical behemoth got to its haunches and craned its horrific face backward, dead black eyes facing the sky, and it let loose another tortured scream. Hot spit flew from its maw, and it slammed its paws down on the ground with such a force that it caused a tremor in the earth.

A small group of fleeing civilians rounded a corner, coming face-to-face with the monster. They skidded to a halt, frozen in fear. Houndstooth craned its head down toward them and let loose another deafening roar.

The civvies got over the whole 'frozen-in-fear' thing pretty quickly.

"Houndstooth has been rather frustrated, lately," The Brass said. "Poor dear just can't seem to howl with the same intensity. Ever since the Thallomoor Banshee ripped out that tracheal QED—"

"I would have preferred not to bring that thing along with us, Brass—"

"_Thing_..." The Brass grumbled, stepping forward into the light of the window. "How very depersonalizing—"

"Houndstooth _is_ a thing," Eggman declared. "Not to mention a _mistake_—"

"I understand your feelings, but for good or ill we _do_ have Houndstooth—"

"That doesn't mean you should necessarily _use _it—"

"Respectfully, you gave us two objectives in this operation: secure the city as quickly as possible, and create as few casualties as possible. Houndstooth is the best way to ensure both these objectives."

Eggman grunted, shaking his head.

"Miserable golem," he growled.

"If I may say: you should not be on the ground yet. Our troops are still ensuring the capture of the rest of the city."

Eggman shook his head:

"I'm sure your efforts are satisfactory. And it would appear that Dasy has just finished disrupting the last of their defensive outposts. Their technology is broken, their defenses overrun, and we have their leaders. Speaking of which..."

The Brass motioned behind Eggman, to a carved rock staircase leading down to a small landing. Eggman descended this stairwell, accompanied by a dozen silver-masked wolves. They went through a series of stone-carved doors and emerged onto a grand patio. It overlooked the entire mountain city, shining in all its splendor, and the patio ended abruptly with a dizzying drop; a sheer cliff face ran down to the jagged ground below. It was at least a twenty story drop, and Eggman leaned forward very hesitantly as he examined it.

"Seriously, not so much as a _railing_..."

He turned around to face a group of assorted adult animals, all of them seated on the ground, wrists tied behind their backs and ankles lashed with plastic cuffs. Armed wolves stood guard behind them, and Bellesailes sauntered amongst the captives, scowling down at them with a menacing glare.

Two goats, a male and a female, sat at the forefront of this group. Eggman recognized the determined look in the male goat's face— a steely glare from his horizontal pupils, and the fearless posture he displayed. He was no less helpless than the others, but he was theatrically nonplussed about it, and not cowering in fear like his compatriots. It was the empty puffery of a leader giving strength to his flock.

His strength wouldn't save them, of course. He'd have to be _smart_, as well.

Eggman knelt before the goat, arm on one knee. He sighed dramatically.

"On behalf of Delta Tribe, I sincerely apologize for this inconvenience—"

"What is the meaning of this attack?" The male goat demanded.

"It's a... tribal thing," Eggman said. "It seems that your city—"

The female goat interjected:

"Our city does not get involved in those matters! Ramoth is not affiliated with anyof the tribes!" She spoke excitedly and sat up on her haunches. Bellesailes produced a small blackjack from her belt and prepared to strike her head, but Eggman held up one hand:

"Indulge me for a moment, if you would, my dear. It seems that your city boasts a certain resident with whom I have some business. He's a very hard fellow to get in touch with, you see, and I'm afraid that if we were any less, uh, dramatic in our actions he might have decided to take his leave of you all without even bothering to stay around and say hello. His manners, you see, can be quite lacking, at times..."

The male goat's eyes narrowed:

"Who is this animal you seek with such fury?"

"A hedgehog," Eggman explained. "A male. Perhaps fifty years old, or thereabouts. His fur is dun-colored, to a point, though it bears the slightest hint of a ruddy coral hue around the spines. Pink, you know, like a neon highlight..."

"Your description is vague—"

"He would have come to you under false pretenses, perhaps claiming he was from the west. In reality, he was from the north. He would have kept a low profile over the years, I assume, and done the best he could to stay under the radar..."

"All the more reason we _wouldn't _know of him!"

"Perhaps," Eggman nodded. "But, you see, my business with him is so _very _important, and this hedgehog is adept at bending the 'powers that be' to his will. That kind of power could allow him to disappear at the drop of a hat, like magic. You see, he's so very adept at the worst magic of all: politics. In any event, I need to be quite certain that none of you are keeping him from his business with me..."

The female goat again leaned forward, shaking her head:

"So you assault our peaceful city without provocation?"

"I'm a little eager to reunite with my very dear colleague. I'm just being a good friend—"

"You're a _villain_!" She spat.

Eggman slowly stood up, smiling gently.

"My dear lady: whether I shall turn out to be the villain of my own story, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, my _actions _must show..."

A heavy door at one side of the patio opened, and two wolves emerged, each of them carrying a burlap sack with something writhing about madly underneath. The wolves came near the edge of the patio and dumped out their bags' contents: two juvenile goats— a boy and a girl— landed on the tile ground. They were both tightly bound, and their mouths secured with tape.

Eggman looked at these juveniles, and then back at the two adult goats:

"Would you like to _see _my actions?"

Both the adult goats struggled to get to their feet, the female whimpering in fear. The wolves pushed them back down to the ground while Bellesailes sauntered between them, teasingly running her fingertips along the couples' heads. She walked past Eggman, giving the man a very brief nod, and then stood between the bound and gagged juveniles.

"W— we don't know this hedgehog!" The male goat said. "He may live here, but if he does we have _not _had contact with him! I swear it!"

"Surely if he immigrated here some records were kept?" Eggman spoke with feigned disinterest as he inspected his fingernails.

"This is a city of refuge from tribal conflict!" The female goat yelled. "We don't monitor such things as closely as the tribes do!"

Eggman looked back at Bellesailes, a quizzical frown on his face:

"I don't know, my dear. Do you think they're telling the truth?"

Bellesailes cocked her head very slowly, eyes cast to one side.

"Do you think," Eggman continued, "that maybe they're _not_ telling us something?"

Bellesailes looked up at Eggman for a brief moment, and then she very slowly nodded her head, eyes narrowed into malevolent slits.

Eggman looked back at the adult goats:

"Well, there you have it, I guess..."

"_Please_!" The male goat cried. "On my life, I swear—"

Eggman held up a finger:

"Ah. Let's try your _children's _lives, shall we?"

He waved a hand behind him.

Bellesailes grinned. She strutted in front of the two juveniles in an overdone prance, and suddenly she kicked one of her legs behind her, knocking the boy goat right in the head. He fell backward, and with a muffled shriek he went tumbling right off the edge of the patio.

The adult goats cried out in horror. The wolves holding them had to reinforce their grips, and the female goat soon fell to uncontrolled sobbing.

Eggman again took a knee, glaring right into the male goat's horizontal pupil:

"Now," he whispered. "Shall we try this again?"

Bellesailes stood in front of the girl goat, who could only look up at the Dame with terrified, trembling eyes. Eggman again held up a hand, and again Bellesailes readied her foot, delicately pressing it against the girl goat's chest.

Heavy footsteps suddenly broke the dramatic mood. Tatu lumbered onto the patio, flanked by a small detachment of warthogs and possums.

"Started the party without me, did you?"

Eggman scowled at the armadillo:

"You are interrupting..."

"Ah, yes. Well, as much as I enjoy a good game of 'juvie-murder', I thought I might remind you why you have the Regulars in the first place..."

The armadillo stood to one side, revealing an animal being dragged on its knees by Tatu's troops. It was a hunched, wretched-looking figure wearing dirty scraps for clothes, with a dirty and scraggily briar patch of mottled fur. He was a hedgehog; the spines along his head and back were bent and unkempt, and the tips ended in a cold, silvery absence of color.

"Because we Regulars _regularly _get results," Tatu crossed his arms, scowling with satisfaction.

The hedgehog's head hung limp, and it rocked about irregularly. After a moment he began to take stock of his situation, and then he looked up and across the patio.

When he locked eyes with Eggman the hedgehog's face twisted about in incomprehensible horror. His lips trembled.

Eggman did not react at first, and then, very slowly, he reached up and removed his dark glasses.

When the hedgehog saw the rotted black orbs hiding behind Eggman's glasses his whole body began to tremble.

"Your quills are now silver, Usahla? Hardly in the pink anymore, are we?"

Eggman took one step, and then another, in the hedgehog's direction. The steps were slow, and they were deliberate.

"I suppose neither of us is in the pink anymore, are we? But, of course, you do _remember_ me?" Eggman smiled genteelly, motioning to his rakishly thin body. "I'll admit I've lost a bit of weight in the intervening years. My hair has fallen from my head. And my eyes..." he laughed. Again, it was very genteel.

And it was terrifying.

"Well, you know about _that_..."

Another step, and another...

"Your quills are now silver, Usahla, and my hair has fallen from its head. Amazing, what a few years can do to a body..."

The hedgehog's body trembled even more as Eggman approached. Usahla gibbered uncontrollably.

"Thought you were nice and secure here, old friend?" Eggman asked. "That was always your first priority, wasn't it? Your very _first _priority: 'security'. Security in all things. Security, no matter the price, no matter the cost, no matter the _means_. In Omega Tribe, well, that was always your great mantra..."

Another step, and then another...

"Well, let me share _my _mantra with you. It's a little something I've cooked up these past few years. They're the words I've lived by. They go a little something like this..."

Eggman craned his head down, doing his best to look the kneeling hedgehog in the face as he walked toward him:

"'I will vindicate my people. When I see that their strength is gone, and no one is left...'"

The hedgehog's face contorted, as if in pain. His eyes squinted shut, and he gnashed his teeth together, desperately shaking his head.

"'It is _mine_ to avenge; I will repay...'"

Eggman reached the hedgehog. He knelt before him:

"'In due time my enemies' feet will slip; their day of disaster nears, and their doom rushes upon them...'"

He cupped the hedgehog's chin with one hand, forcing the old animal to look him in the eyes. But Usahla desperately looked away:

"'I will send against them the fangs of wild beasts, and the venom of serpents that glide in the dust. I would _scatter_ them...'"

Eggman's grip on the hedgehog's chin grew firm. His gloved hand trembled as he held Usahla's head tight.

"'...and erase their name from human memory.'"

Eggman stared at the hedgehog for a very long time. He waited for Usahla to look him in the eyes. He waited, and he waited.

It didn't happen.

Eggman released his grip and stood up, adjusting his glove.

"That's from a book. A human book. It's called 'Deuteronomy'. Its purpose was to lay down laws. Some are more important than others. _That one_, there, well, ithappens to be immutable."

Finally, very slowly, Usahla craned his head up and looked Eggman in the face.

"I've come to settle accounts, Usahla. So, what do you say?"

The old hedgehog looked down again. His limbs relaxed, and he appeared to slump in his captors' hands. But just as suddenly he bucked his body about violently. He managed to free one arm, and he reached a hand into the pocket of his ratty clothes. Bellesailes was on him instantly; she wrestled him to the ground and managed to pin his limbs after a brief, chaotic struggle.

As Bellesailes and the troops worked to restrain the hedgehog his body suddenly went into violent convulsions. The Dame leapt up, startled, as a spurt of foam exploded from the hedgehog's lips, landing on her cheek. Eggman quickly shooed all his troops away, giving the hedgehog some space.

"I didn't do that," Bellesailes said. "He must've taken something."

"Brilliant deduction," Eggman growled. He ran a finger along the foam coating Bellesailes' cheek and put it to his nose.

"Mmm. Bitter almonds..."

The wolves' combat medics quickly rummaged through their kits, seeking out the proper remedy. They prepared a syringe, and then handed it to Eggman. The man looked first at the syringe, and then down at the hedgehog beneath him. Usahla writhed in agony, clutching his throat, still frothing at the mouth.

Eggman's lips twisted together, tight. They trembled.

And then, very slowly, he smiled.

The man got to one knee, leaning down casually over the convulsing hedgehog.

"Cyanide," Eggman mused. "You must have heard about it, right? A good 'last resort' for the animal on the run? It's got a certain mystique to it, doesn't it? You probably know many stories where a dashing character in dire straits is forced to use it. To avoid pursuers, to avoid capture, to avoid... _torture_?"

The hedgehog gasped for air, body still rolling about madly.

"The stories never seem to get it right, you know. _Depicting _it, I mean. A pop of the pill, a few seconds of struggling and poof: out like a light." Eggman shook his head, wagging a finger. "No, no ,no. The reality is... well, you're seeing it for yourself." The man toyed with the syringe in his hand, rolling it along the top of his fingers. "What you're feeling right now is every living piece of muscle and tissue in your body screaming out in one long procession of ceaseless agony. That's because your blood is no longer able to carry oxygen. Cyanide loves blood, you know. It loves blood cells so much that it holds on to them tight, and it _never _lets go. Oxygen stops flowing to your body, carbon dioxide stops flowing _out _of your body. Slowly, painfully, your cells begin to die, and all that carbon dioxide builds up in your bloodstream and turns your blood into acid..."

Usahla's eyes bulged from his head; a strangling noise escaped his tensed throat.

"It's a painful way to die, you know. And now, I suppose that you also know it is very, _very _slow..."

Eggman held the syringe over the hedgehog, dangling it like a piece of meat before a dog:

"Do you want this, Usahla? I would imagine that you do. I imagine that you want to have a proper conversation with me, isn't that right, Usahla? There _is _much we could talk about. Maybe, for example, you could tell me what your technicians ended up doing with the Slipper they took from my people's ship?"

The hedgehog thrashed about on the ground, but he said nothing.

"Oh, no? Well, let's try something else: could you let me know where I can find any more of our old 'friends'? Maybe you could tell me where I might find Dr. James Prower, for instance?"

Usahla coughed uncontrollably. His head twisted about as he grunted a few words, strangling on his own muscles:

"P— Pr— _rower_!"

Eggman leaned forward, black eyes intense:

"I am listening..."

"F— Fi—Fi..." He coughed, and a small spurt of blood trickled over his lips. "_Fili... Filigree_!"

Eggman looked up at Bellesailes, who appeared equally puzzled. The man stood up, scratching his chin. He walked away, toward the patio's edge.

"_Sir_," Bellesailes whispered.

"Hmm?" He looked up at her absently, as if in a daze, and the Dame motioned to the writhing hedgehog with her head. She coughed politely, blinking her eyes uncomfortably and shuffling her feet.

The man's teeth set together. He shook his head, sighing, and then tossed the syringe to the medics. He motioned to the pathetic hedgehog on the ground. The medics went to attend to Usahla as Eggman stared out across the mountain cityscape. He slowly replaced his dark glasses as Bellesailes came up beside him.

"Apologies," she whispered, "but—"

"No. You were right, of course..."

Tatu came to their side, standing gravely at attention. Bellesailes exchanged a glance with him, but she said nothing. Eggman realized that she didn't want him to see her face when she looked at Tatu. It was an uneasy look, and it was a doubtful look. There were many words in her look, and all of them seemed to question Eggman's coldness.

He didn't blame her for any of them.

The medics injected Usahla with the antidote and worked to stabilize his condition. As they worked on him his body tensed up once again, and then it fell completely limp. The medics pulled out shock strips and did what they could to restart his heart. After a few minutes one of them approached Eggman:

"No good," he said. "There was too much cardiac damage. His body wasn't in very good shape to begin with. I'd say he was living pretty rough, by the look of things. With his dirty rags and his appalling hygiene, he'd been without a home for a _very_ longtime. And the shock from the poisoning was just too much for him."

Eggman nodded.

"His quills were silver..." he muttered, shaking his head. "Well, that's not enough. Not _nearly _enough!"

The female goat finally ran out of tears; she screamed at Eggman as loud as she could:

"Murderer! _Monster_!"

Eggman turned around, again presenting that genteel smile:

"Nothing of the sort, my dear. I believe what you just witnessed was a _suicide_. He made a choice that I can _live_ with, and that he can _die _with—"

Again, Bellesailes coughed politely.

Eggman looked over at her, scowling:

"Wouldn't do to make a habitof interrupting me," he growled.

"Respectfully," the Dame whispered, "I think she's a little upset about that kid we 'killed'..."

Eggman's lips puckered, and then he chuckled, staring at the ground.

"Of course," he sighed. "Thank you, once again..."

Eggman motioned to Bellesailes, and the Dame snapped her fingers. Instantly a damselfly soared up from beyond the edge of the patio. She carried the boy goat in her arms, struggling in terror but otherwise unharmed. She dumped him beside the girl goat and both juveniles were untied. They raced to their bound parents, cowering with them in a comforting embrace. Eggman stepped before the family:

"Again, Delta Tribe apologizes for this inconvenience. Our troops will vacate your fair city as soon as possible, _after _assessing all damages done. You will be compensated for all of these damages, either in currency or material, as best we can provide, and as you see fit. Additionally you will receive a payment on top of that, as further compensation for the 'shock' our little operation forced you to endure. And our business is, thus, concluded..."

Eggman looked back at the dead hedgehog on the tile, his gaze lingering for some time. Bellesailes and Tatu looked on, as well, and Tatu whispered to the Dame:

"Seems that justice _was _simple this time around, wasn't it?"

Bellesailes did not answer him. The armadillo smirked:

"Ah, maybe that was too 'cold' for me to say?"

Eggman turned on his heels and moved off for the tower beyond the patio. The female goat spat at him as he walked away:

"Go to _hell_!" She bleated.

Eggman paused, slowly turning his head to face the goat family. He smiled:

"I'm on Mobius," he whispered. "I believe that's close enough..."


	22. Restful Dreamers

"Restful Dreamers"

I.

The radio on her dresser cracked to life, blaring out a tinny little trumpet tune. It was the kind of overdone, ostentatious thing one might hear in a classic medieval film, when guests at court were announced before their king and a line of trumpets would play them down the red carpet. It really couldn't help but stir the loins of all but the most jaded and cynical beings imaginable.

Fionnghal yawned, rubbing her eyes.

She didn't really yawn much, or at least she tried not to, because it always ended in an extraordinarily cute little 'yip' at the end— a vulnerable little squeak of adorableness— like a kitten's mewl. This was natural in her species, and she couldn't do much about it. It did have the effect of making her look very cute, and it did make her look very vulnerable.

So, yeah, she didn't yawn that much.

The rat pattered over to a row of narrow, shuttered windows and bashed her fist against a console built into the wall. Slats in the windows flipped onto their sides, bathing the room in a train of brilliant morning light. Her little radio began sputtering out the morning update with a voice that was way too perky for this early in the day.

"Good morning, all you true-blue Mobians! The current weather in our oh-so-lovely little Oğluabubus Valley is a balmy 22 degrees, with afternoon sunshine sure to push that number up into the high 20's by lunchtime..."

The harsh morning rays highlighted cigarette smoke curling through the air, snaking like serpents' tails over a chair beside the bed. Tatu sat in that chair, disinterestedly knocking some cigarette ash against one of his massive thighs. The rat squinted at him, head tilted:

"Were you... uh, watching me sleep, just now?"

Tatu smirked, shrugging:

"It's quite a sight, you know." He extended a hand, holding out the cigarette to her.

Fionnghal waved a paw at him:

"Trying to quit. Remember?"

The armadillo scoffed, rolling his eyes:

"Ah, yeah. Coddling the lungs, right? I forgot about all those drills they make you run in Special Operations. Treating you like some common grunt—"

"'Cause I _am _a common grunt—"

"Bet it makes you long for the good old days, back when you were a prim, proper, professional assassin. It must've been a lot easier—"

"It was _simpler_. Not easier. And I'd be trying to quit smoking even without the Spec Ops drills—"

"Why's that?" He asked. "Nobody would begrudge you a little puff, now and then. Soothes the soul. Steadies the nerves."

"My nerves are just fine—"

"So you say."

The rat put her hands on her hips:

"Do you mind telling me why, exactly, watching me sleep is 'quite a sight'?"

"Little creepy, is it?"

"Just a touch. What: you like seeing me helpless?" A devilish little glint beamed in her eyes. "You like seeing me _defenseless_?"

Tatu smirked.

"Yeah, I do. But that's not why I like watching you sleep."

"Why, then?"

The armadillo took another long drag from his cigarette. He expelled it slowly:

"You look peaceful. Nerves look steady. Your soul looks soothed. Or at least you're not gnawing that poor little lower lip of yours to pieces..."

The rat blinked, and then turned her head to one side, scowling.

Tatu waved his cigarette through the air, eyeing the dancing embers as he spoke.

"You know: somebody a lot more romantic than _me_, talking about someone a lot more 'cuddly' than _you_, they might go so far as to call it 'beautiful'."

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. Tatu decided to change the subject:

"You should put on a towel if you're gonna open the windows, Fi..."

The rat looked back at him, her eyes again playful:

"Really? Is it 'gross'?"

"_Blinding_," the armadillo smirked. "The light outside is bad enough; the way it bounces off your body, though, well, that's too much."

The window slats soon parted, revealing a giant sloping depression stretched far out before Fionnghal's room. An entire network of buildings spanned this gradient, ringing it like a massive horseshoe. Her room was near the center of this network, up on the second story, nestled in with the other soldiers' quarters.

"You can't expect me to just change the color of my fur, can you? And, actually," Fionnghal faced the armadillo, pointing at a small glass cage on a table beside the bed, "_that _little thingis what's 'too much', you know..."

Straw in the cage moved about; something was slithering around underneath, winding in serpentine arcs.

Tatu smirked.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of reptiles? And it isn't exactly a pet." He reached over to the cage and tapped the glass. Instantly a narrow, scaly head poked out from the straw; blood-red eyes leered at Tatu and a forked serpent's tongue flared out at him. Soon the creature darted back down into the depths of the straw.

"The thing's a necessary evil. I'm taking my crew out of the valley in two days," the armadillo explained. "We're heading west. _Far _west, all the way out into the Dagroain Wild. And making camp out there is kinda difficult—"

"Staying _alive _out there is kinda difficult," Fionnghal noted.

"Right you are. Well, we'll be down in the central traps, mining those tasty little veins of rare earth metals. Stuff's worth a fortune on the market— twice its weight in gold. But the ground out there is a damned pock-marked moonscape, and it's riddled with spiders. _Deadly _little spiders. In force, at least. A few bites aren't too bad, but if they swarm you? Not too good. They make their homes in all those tiny little tunnels in the rock. And you can't see 'em until they've bitten you..."

"'Nother reason to _avoid _the Dagroian Wild. Besides, Omega Tribe's got plenty of rare earth metals. You won't get a good price for them, here."

"Like I said: we're selling them on the _market_."

"Can't imagine any of the other tribes needing them that badly, either..."

Tatu again tapped the cage, and again a pair of vile red eyes leered through the straw. "Believe me, there's a hungry market out there. It's worth every cent to go get 'em, spiders or no. And _these _little guys?" He motioned to the snake. "They're hungry, hungry serpents, and they like nothing more than to gorge themselves on spiders. They fit right into their little hidey-holes, too, so the bastards really don't have anywhere to go. The spiders end up like... fruit at the... bottom of... a yogurt cup…"

Tatu's words slowed. He stared at Fionnghal as the rat broke open the seal on a small can of yogurt and went to work spooning out the contents, gulping it down at a steady rate.

"What?" She worked her words around the spoon in her mouth.

"Nothing," Tatu shook his head. "I just seem to remember that breakfasts with you used to be a lot more 'fun'."

"I don't remember eating breakfast that often, back in the old days."

The armadillo smiled:

"Well, _drink_. Hair of the dog." He chuckled. "Get more bang for your buck on an empty stomach, I guess."

Fionnghal's grin fell, and then she nodded. She willed her smirk to return:

"Well, it's all Spec Ops, you know. Tox screens. That kinda thing..."

"They're a bunch of devilish bullies," he grumbled.

Fionnghal grunted noncommittally, staring back down at the cage with crossed arms.

"Is it venomous?" She asked.

"Oooh yeah. You bet. Damn thing could kill a hippo."

"So how do you keep it from coming back up out of the holes when you least suspect it? It might pop up and take a bite out of _you_."

The armadillo shrugged:

"They're usually not too aggressive, if unprovoked. But sure, it damn-well might. Like any animal, it can be unpredictable. But that's just _one _big ol' snake we gotta worry about, rather than about five-thousand itty-bitty little spiders."

The rat shook her head:

"So: you're giving the damn thing a very fine meal, and then you're giving it the perfect opportunity to hide, safe and sound, right under your feet, where it can pop up at any time to strike at you. Brilliant tactics, Tat..."

Tatu smiled, taking a long drag from his cigarette before speaking:

"_We're_ using the snake, Fi, not the other way around. If it 'misbehaves'— if it does come back up out of the holes after eating those spiders, then we kill it—"

"Before it kills you?"

"Of course. We strike at its head, and it strikes at our heels." Tatu pressed the remains of his cigarette against his wrist; it burned out in a mess of smoke and sparks, leaving a small black mark on his bumpy flesh. "And Iwear thick-soled shoes."

The rat scoffed, turning her attention to the narrow windows:

"You're really just solving one problem with another. And it's a worse problem, too."

"Ah, then please: in your infinite wisdom, what would you do?"

Fionnghal looked back at him:

"Kill the snake. Deal with the spiders as they come."

"You don't believe in using your assets intelligently, then?"

"There's a danger," she said, "and it doesn't do to substitute one danger for another. 'Dangers' should be nipped in the bud, right out. You're trying to be cleverer than you are."

The armadillo shook his head, chuckling:

"Nah. I'm just cleverer than _you_, I think."

Fionnghal rested her elbows on the windowsill, lazily craning her head from side to side. She lowered her head and went to work kneading the vertebrae in her neck; eventually she noticed a great shadow passing along the ground out in the complex's center. It moved slowly, snaking along the sloping plain of manicured grass, almost as if the waving blades hid some behemoth creature beneath their surface.

She looked up. Far, far overhead a massive mountain of metal bobbed about in the sky. It was a ship, and it was a rather obscene creation: a long, triangle-shaped mishmatch of gunmetal hues and heat-scarred plates supported two narrow rows of slots underneath. These slots glowed blue, like the fire at the center of a burner, but they put out no flame of their own. The entire ship looked as if someone had stuck a pair of radioactive skis under an ugly, ruined skyscraper that somehow landed on its side intact.

The ship was flying higher, today. On any other day Fionnghal would be able to make out that dingy, crude lettering etched into the vessel's side in three-story-tall characters. She couldn't actually read what it said, of course— being written in that strange alien gibberish— but everyone in Omega Tribe knew the translation:

'_Elegatis_'.

"I saw some of them, yesterday," she mumbled.

"Who?" Tatu asked.

Fionnghal looked back at him, her face sardonic, and pointed straight up at the ship.

"Ah. Our 'visitors'."

"We were out in the highlands, west of the valley on patrol. Came across a large contingent of their soldiers. They had a hard perimeter set up around a grassy little plateau. Enough firepower to level a mountain."

The armadillo squinted:

"What were they doing up there? They weren't digging for metals, were they?"

The rat shook her head:

"Nah. They had some of their juveniles up there, playing. It was a weird thing to just stumble across, too. We kept our distance, of course. One of the soldiers gave a little salute or something to our Mistress, and she gave one back. Whole thing couldn't have been more awkward. We only observed 'em for about five minutes, but it felt like an eternity." Fionnghal put her back to the window, leaning on her elbows, and stared down at her coffee table. "It's kinda funny: their juvies play just like our juvies do. Tag, capture the flag, that kinda thing. It's really weird: you don't really expect to see that kind of behavior in a creepy alien species like that."

"Eh," Tatu shrugged. "They're not _that _creepy looking. Although they _do _kinda have this whole 'naked mole rat' thing going on."

Fionnghal's brow suddenly furrowed. She looked up at Tatu:

"Why were you afraid that they were digging for metals, Tat? Why'd your brain go there, first? Hold on: you can't mean that your 'market' for those rare earths is..."

The armadillo shrugged:

"Turns out our visitors are the best market, by far. Hairless freaks are downright gaga for rare earths. I think that the aliens' technology might rely on them more than ours does. Who knows? I'm not a scientist—"

"No one would _ever _mistake you for one—"

"But, for whatever reason, they're willing to pay out the nose for 'em."

"You can't be serious, Tat! For the sake of the Emerald Makers—"

"No, more like 'for the sake of buying warm meals and supplies for my crew'—"

"That's _treasonous_!"

"Nope. It would be if I was actually a memberof your little tribe, but thankfully I'm freelance. Also, you guys _do_ currently have a cease-fire with our 'friendly' little visitors..."

"Who knows how long that'll last? We could start up hostilities with them any _day _now!"

"Sure. Whatever you want. Just try not to do it before the first of next month," Tatu disinterestedly inspected the undersides of his massive fingernails. "That's when I estimate that we're due back. Try to hold off on the fighting until I've collected my fee."

Fionnghal's upper teeth wrapped about her lower lip. She leaned against the coffee table, leaning down near Tatu's face.

"Aah," he growled, shielding his eyes. "Morning sun," he motioned to her fur. "Reflection! _Bright_!"

"You're selling out you fellow Mobians for a little profit. That _ain't _bright!"

Tatu's whimsical face took a darker turn; the folds in his granite face fell into pits of cold, raw emotion:

"Maybe profit's not the only object, Fi." He grit his teeth. "At least, not money..."

"_What_, then?"

"Do you remember Kirkinchu?"

Fionnghal looked to one side.

"Yeah, sure. Your, uh... brother—"

"Cousin." Tatu shook his head. "Seriously: the chick in the relationship is _supposed _to be the one that's interested in all the family tree stuff—"

Fionnghal tapped her sternum, scowling:

"Not a '_chick_'."

"Sometimes I do wonder—"

Fionnghal's naked foot rapped against the table, sending it bouncing to one side. She made a lightning-fast little pounce (really more an awkward hop) and before Tatu could even try to counter she had him pinned to his chair, one elbow snug against his throat.

"Whaddya think, now?" She cocked her head, snarling.

Tatu smiled at her, head tilted up by the rat's elbow.

"I think you shouldn't get in too close to an opponent without a weapon..."

Suddenly he raised both his gargantuan legs up, much spryer than he looked like he should be capable of, and wrapped them tightly around Fionnghal's waist. She reacted, but far too late; by the time they were around her it was as if her lower body had been entombed in a bed of hardened concrete. She struggled, pushing against his legs with her paws, and this amused Tatu even more. The rat slowed her struggles, narrowing her eyes at him.

"No weapons at all," Tatu mused. "Although you do have your body," he cooed gently, eyes wandering. "That counts as a _deadly_ weapon, I guess."

"I'd prefer a dagger, or two—"

"You've _got_ two," his voice rose with playful condescension. "You... got 'em... for eyes..." He poked Fionnghal's nose three times as he spoke, pausing briefly in between.

The rat furrowed her brow, crossing her arms.

"So you _do_ like seeing me defenseless, don't you?"

"Ah, you're never really defenseless, are you, Fi?"

"Nope."

The rat landed a blow with her fist right against Tatu's hip, and in just the right spot to bring a spastic little tremor to his legs. It was enough to get Fionnghal out of the leg-lock, but it didn't affect Tatu's arms one bit; he brought them around her back as she rose up over him, cementing her in a tight bear hug. She resisted this, as well, and by the time the pair settled into the pose they were both panting openly. Tatu's face was an inch from the rat's, and he began to chuckle:

"We keep this up much longer," he panted, "and you'll have to seriously reconsider having that cigarette..."

Fionnghal reciprocated the smile, very briefly, before striking Tatu on the side of his head. She didn't make a fist; instead she used the force of her fingertips to drive one concerted point of energy into the 'dillo's armored skin. It was enough to make Tatu wince and release his grip on her. Fionnghal quickly got to her feet, smoothing her fur into place.

"Knock it off," she grumbled. "I've got morning calisthenics in an hour." She looked over at him with a teasing eye. "I need my energy for _that_."

"Calisthenics," he grumbled, rubbing his skull. "I know of a much better way to loosen up—"

"Sorry about the bump," she apologized. "I just wanted you to get the hint."

"Ah, it's fine," he grumbled. "I just have to accept that sad fact: you do know how to hurt me…"

"Why'd you bring up your cousin?" She asked.

Tatu cocked his head, blinking.

"Huh? Did I? Oh, I guess I did..."

"Could you try to focus, maybe?"

"Well, then you try not to jump on top of me unless you plan on—" he shook his head. "Forget it. Anyway, _Kirkinchu_, yes: I brought him up because he's dead."

"Oh," Fionnghal blinked. "I'm... sorry—"

"Eh," Tatu waved one of his massive arms. "Didn't really know him that well. It isn't because he died that I bring him up, but what he died _of_. He died from the Rot, and he went awfully quick, from what I hear." Tatu scratched at his chin, staring away from the rat. "Him dying, well, that reminded me of Mulita."

"Your sister, right?"

He chuckled.

"You _do _pay a little attention to family trees, huh? Yeah, that's her."

"She died when you were a juvie, didn't she?"

He nodded.

"Just kinda... rotted away. And she _didn't _go quick."

Fionnghal nodded.

"'Kay," she muttered. "And I'm sorry about that, too. But what does any of it have to do with you getting into bed with those aliens?"

"Rot ain't one of those problems that's high on the list for Mobians to cure. Makes sense: it doesn't really affect too many species, does it? And the species that it _does_ affect don't tend to sit on any high council seats, do they? And, last but not least: it's one heck of a hard disease to figure out, isn't it?" Tatu lit another cigarette and took an inordinately long drag from it. "It's a puzzle, and one that doesn't really interest the powers that be on _this_ planet. Mobians don't really like puzzles, I don't think. But do you know who does?"

Fionnghal cocked her head, a dark scowl forming at the drawn corners of her lips. She remained silent as Tatu continued:

"Before he died Kirkinchu was in contact with the aliens. He went to see their scientists. Spoke directly with their egg man, in fact. Got his blood drawn, genome sampled—"

"And probably killed for his trouble," Fionnghal growled. "What the hell could the aliens have to offer us in terms of medicaltreatment? They're _aliens_; they don't know a damned thing about Mobian physiology."

"It puzzles 'em," Tatu nodded, knocking more ash from his cigarette. "And say what you will about them: they _like _puzzles."

"Things like the Rot will be cured by _Mobian _scientists, Tat! And the sooner our society gets its act together and forms a unified front the sooner that can happen. The aliens aren't gonna help matters!"

"So, then species like mine need to wait?" Tatu growled. "Would it change your thinking if I told you that _I _had the Rot, too?"

Fionnghal's eyes widened; she took a small step back from him.

"Relax," the armadillo chuckled. "Rats don't get it, you know. You're safe, no matter how many 'calisthenics' we do together—"

"I— that's not what I'm worried about—"

"Worried about _me_? Well, if so, then you should want me to be cured as soon as possible. I know enough Mobian history to know that that's notgonna happen. Not in my lifetime. The politics aren't there, and the puzzle's too much to bother with. And the aliens? Politics don't concern them, and like I said, they love a good puzzle—"

"You can't put your faith in _them_. They won't cure you: they'll just _use _you to make themselves look more noble—"

"They'll use _me_? And what's all this about 'faith'?" The armadillo laughed. "When did I say anything about _faith_? This is all strictly 'means to an end' stuff, here. _I'm_ using the aliens, Fi, not the other way around—"

"They _can't _be used like that, Tat! They're too dangerous!"

The armadillo stood up, sunken eyes bleeding fire:

"The Rot's what's dangerous, Fionnghal. Politics are what's dangerous. Being _ignored _is what's dangerous! You ever stop to think about things, and how they'll turn out in the long run?" The armadillo stormed up to the window and pointed into the sky, gesturing at the massive ship bobbing about in the clouds. "That's onealien ship— just _one_— with about ten-thousand frozen bodies on board. They've only got about five-hundred _warm_ bodies running around up there, and over half of them are juveniles. Yeah, their egg man does have his little 'garden' at the ready, and that'd be another fifty-thousand individuals, or so, but they'd take the better part of a _year_ to even come into being, and well over a decade to grow to maturity. Their genes don't have an Interspecies Cooperative-Coding Region, so mating with _us _is right out. They've got less numbers up there than my little neighborhood did back in Sulumac'Dun when I was a juvie. Do you really think they're gonna be a long-term 'threat' to this planet? I don't. I don't see it happening. Don't get me wrong: they're resourceful, and they're great puzzle-solvers, but they don't have the numbers, and they don't have the strength of arms needed to be any kind of long-term terror. This whole thing'll probably end with some kinda lovey-dovey little peace offering between you guys, probably instigated by _them_. They have to do something like that, 'cause the gods only know that they're too weak to try to do anything else. I know theysee it that way. Don't you?"

Fionnghal stared up at the ship; she shook her head, eyes narrowing to slits.

"All I know is that they're a danger, Tat. And dangers should be nipped in the bud."

The armadillo's scowl deepened.

"Sorry," she said. "That's just how I feel. Nothing's gonna change that."

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, I'm pretty sure that your tribe's _negotiator_ agrees with me—"

"Leave himout of this," Fionnghal snapped.

Tatu leaned his head back a bit, surprised by the rat's curtness.

"Alright, fine. He's off limits in this discussion. Whatever. I'm done debating with you, anyway."

The armadillo lumbered over to the bedside and began collecting his things. Fionnghal considered him with a small frown. That was a mighty fine wall she'd just put up between them, and now she very much regretted it. She tried to think of what to do to melt the situation a little, or at least soften things.

She let herself yawn again, this time really drawing the 'adorableness' out of it. When she spoke, her tone was infinitely conciliatory:

"I'm sorry that you're sick, Tat. I don't want you to think I'm not. You angry with me?" She asked.

"No," Tatu shook his head as he buckled up his boots. He looked up at her, smiling. "Can't be mad at your opinion, can I? After all, I've always just been that much cleverer than you."

Fionnghal's 'wounded adorability' instantly hardened into a tight sneer.

A chime sounded at her door. Fionnghal leapt into some shorts and a tank and then pressed her palm against a console, allowing the door to slide open. A pair of radiant blue eyes met her, set atop a prominent canine muzzle with brindled fur. The wolf bowed his head at her, briefly, and then his fine furry ears twitched questioningly:

"Lieutenant De'Sulum?" The wolf asked.

"Uh, yeah? Um, _sir_." Fionnghal stood at a attention when she looked over the wolf's somber uniform and realized he outranked her.

"At ease."

"So... what brings a wolf—"

"The Dolamiram pack is moderating a talk between your ruling council and the human delegation later today. It will be held within our territory. You were requested to be on the security detail."

Fionnghal squinted.

"Uh, forgive me: I don't usually run _security_—"

"Your mistress is having you seconded to the Diplomatic Services branch for the time being. You were requested, by name, by the Omega Tribe Negotiator. It is his right to request his own personal guard for the duration of the talks."

The rat's brow ticked.

"Ah," she mumbled. "I see..."

"And it's your right to accept, or not. Do you refuse to—"

"No," Fionnghal wagged her head, brow still scrunched in perplexion. "Just give me a moment, please."

The wolf let Fionnghal dress, and as she did so she was greatly preoccupied with the significance of her assignment.

"Didn't know you guys in Omega Tribe let the wolves just saunter through you facilities like that. Awful nice courtesy, especially given their dealings with the aliens. I'd almost think that by this point you'd all be soured on them..."

The rat scoffed, laughing at him:

"Sheesh! What do you think we're gonna do, Tat? We're not just gonna go out and make _enemies_ of the Dolamiram Wolf Pack. Do you think we're insane?"

"You're too fond of those fleabags, I think."

Fionnghal scowled:

"Just 'cause I appreciate their culture, and their code, _doesn't _mean I'm 'fond' of them, overall..."

Tatu watched her finish dressing, his granite lips pursed.

"So, then: Omega Tribe's beloved negotiator is asking for you personally, huh? He must think he's close to some kind of breakthrough."

"Or he's just afraid that everything'll go straight to hell and we'll have to fight our way out of there," Fionnghal smiled as she tightened a belt around her waist. "He's probably nervous. He should be. Nobody would ever mistake him for a _fighter_, that's for sure..." She looked back at Tatu. "Or maybe there _is _some kinda 'lovey-dovey' peace arrangement to iron out. Gods know it's unlikely, but who knows? Listen, Tat, about our whole argument—"

"No argument," he mumbled. "Just a disagreement, really. I'd prefer it if we agreed, but..."

She smiled.

"You'd probably prefer it if I were less 'argumentative', in general."

"Not really." He reciprocated her smile. "It's kinda what makes you _you_."

She finished dressing and then left Tatu in her room. She left the soldier dormitories and went outside, crossing the complex and heading for the armory.

"Oh! Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

Fionnghal looked behind her: a female hedgehog raced up to meet her. Her body was a dazzling show of electric pink; every quill a bright surge of color. This was all highlighted by her startling green eyed, large and expressive. She wore a blue pleated dress with a gold sash along the waist. The symbol of Omega Tribe stood out proudly over one breast.

Fionnghal quickly skidded to a halt and snapped to attention:

"Good morning, Miss Rose," she said.

The hedgehog chuckled, waving a white-gloved hand at the rat:

"No, no, Lieutenant! It's _Amy_."

"Of course. 'Amy'..."

"You haven't seen Sonic today, have you?" She asked.

"Not yet."

Amy stamped one sandal-clad foot down on the path, fuming.

"Honestly! First daddy says that he's taking a trip later today— to visit those icky wolves out in the West— and now Sonic is running around to and fro like a chicken with his head cut off!"

"Usahla's taking a trip?" Fionnghal asked.

"Mmm-hmm." Amy nodded. "Don't see why he has to go anywhere; just 'cause he's the head of our security doesn't mean he should have to go out and sit down with those smelly wolves out there in Dolamiram. He'll probably come back all covered in fleas!" The hedgehog leaned in closer to Fionnghal, who, through nothing more than baffled instinct, leaned in as well:

"Keep a secret? I hear tell that those disgusting human-things are gonna be up there! In _Dolamiram_, I mean. Can you imagine? I say let 'em all just rot up there, together. Humans and wolves: they're _made_ for each other, you know? They've both got enough fleas, haven't they?"

"Humans don't have fleas, I don't think."

Amy's expression turned icy:

"C'mon, Fifi—"

Fionnghal winced, but tried to keep it internal.

"—those things are nothing but homeless, smelly, disgusting sacks of hairless filth. What's more: they're _dangerous_. They'll get what's coming to them, one of these days!" Amy crossed her arms. "They'll _pay _for coming down here, all unannounced, worrying everyone half to death." She looked up at Fionnghal, her gloved hands held tight together, and blinked at her with hopeful eyes. "We'll send 'em packing, right? Daddy worries about it so much: about what life'll be like on Mobius for us, and our juveniles, if we don't. The rest of the council doesn't seem to know _what _to do! And Sonic..."

Amy's voice trailed off; she looked to one side, her brow troubled, and she shook her head:

"I love Sonic, of course... I love him with all my heart, no matter what. But you _know_ him..."

Fionnghal quickly became very uncomfortable; she put one hand on Amy's shoulder, trying her best to smile reassuringly.

"Don't worry about it, Amy," she said. "The council's not gonna do anything stupid, believe me. You wanna know my opinion? What _I _think is gonna happen?"

Amy looked up at the rat, her face expectant.

"The humans are a big problem, but I think we're gonna nip this problem in the bud!" Fionnghal said.

Slowly, with growing certainty in her eyes, Amy drank in Fionnghal's confident words.

And she smiled.

II.

It was the lightest tap to her temple: an infinitely brief and gentle prod.

She didn't quite react appropriately.

Fionnghal leapt off her seat and rammed her assailant up against the jeep's door. She held a small dagger to their throat, snarling. All that before she'd even opened her eyes. When she did, however, she instantly backed down, blinking. She rubbed a few crusty deposits of sleep out of her sockets.

"Ah. Are we there, yet?" She muttered.

Asher drew a slow breath, adjusting his combat vest back into place.

"More or less," he grumbled.

Fionnghal tried not to miss a beat; she quickly slung herself over the cottontail and out of the jeep, landing on soft earth. The road they had stopped on was spongy with damp earth; it cut a swath through a plain of leafy green bushes and trees, all of which thrived at the base of the mighty Frostblessor. The imposing mountain could catch entire rainstorms in its path, like some twisted hand risen from the earth, and force the clouds to seed the ground all around it. Of the massive trees around them, however, all but the youngest saplings had been felled.

"You know," Asher said, "for someone who looks so peaceful when they sleep—"

"Spare me," Fionnghal muttered. "And don't go around watching females when they sleep. It's kinda creepy..."

She walked up the path ahead to meet Sonic and Thadesch, who both stood at the head of a large wood bridge spanning a small gorge. It was constructed of two sets of raw, untreated tree trunks. They were lashed together with fasteners, and Fionnghal noticed with no small measure of surprise that these fasteners were made entirely of plastic ribbons, not metal.

Thadesch puffed on the remains of his oversize pipe, pulling a long drag before speaking:

"We can't dawdle here all day, mind you. The leopards guarding this ascent will only be 'on break' for the next hour. That's what I paid them for, anyway. Now then: here, my good children, is where things start to get 'weird'."

The rat's eyes widened as she examined the gorge: the place was a graveyard of blasted metal and broken propeller pieces. She counted the remains of at least four aircraft, all heaped together in the rift.

"What in the name of the Emerald Makers?" She muttered.

"My contacts in Upsilon Tribe tell me that it all began about four months ago, when a routine training flight passed near the Frostblessor's shadow and went down. The cause was undetermined. When a second aircraft joined the investigation itwent down, also. As you can imagine, this piqued the cats' interest. Vehicles they sent into the area soon began malfunctioning, too, and upon further investigation it was discovered that parts of their engines were bent in on themselves in most unnatural ways, destroying them. Surveyors brought in to investigate the surrounding land for anomalies awoke one morning to find their survey poles bent about like snake tails. One member of the survey team— a rather older lion— died quiet suddenly, and in agony. A necropsy revealed that the metal casing of his artificial pacemaker was sliced up and bent all about his heart, like ribbons of paper surrounding a fragile object in a shipping container—"

"That's probably the most horrible analogy ever, Thadesch," Asher grumbled.

The toad produced a small baggie from his vest pocket:

"The cats' only lead on this matter is a signal. What _kind _of signal I'm not certain. Apologies, of course, but my information gathering abilities only go so far. Whatever the signal is, its origin is high up on the Frostblessor, near the sheltered western peaks. With air travel obviously not an option the cats decided to send one of their mountaineers up the Frostblessor to intercept the signal source..."

The toad produced a set of three-inch-long metal spikes with small eyelets in the wider ends. He handed them to Sonic, Asher and Fionnghal. Each of the spikes was twisted about itself in serpentine arcs.

"What are these?" Sonic asked.

"Those are the mountaineer's petons. Or rather what's _left _of his petons. The bad news for the cats is that their climber didn't get very far on his trip up. The good news for their climber is that he didn't get very far up on his trip; he only broke most of the bones in his body on the way down..."

Asher inspected his bent spike, a hint of wonder brimming over his brown eyes:

"These things were hammered right into the rock of the mountain, and _still_ they managed to bend like this?"

Sonic's followed the trail beyond the timber bridge with his eyes; it inched around a steep grade and disappeared behind the Frostblessor's ascent. Further along the mountain's jagged ridge a small ring of cut logs, bound together with rope, winded their way around the sheer rock face.

"They're building a pathway up the Frostblessor," he muttered. "And they're making it out of _wood_..."

"It's the only practical material they have at hand, really." Thadesch held his pipe over the gorge and knocked the remaining ashes out. "At least timber seems to be immune to the... err, 'phenomenon', as they call it."

Fionnghal walked across the timber bridge, paws on her hips. She stopped at the bridge's center, staring up the foreboding mountain:

"Kitties got any theories on what this 'phenomenon' actually is?"

"Oh, several," Thadesch nodded. "Some of the members of the cats' ruling council think that it must be a 'gravity anomaly' of some kind, which is... well, it's just plain wrong, actually. Gravity anomalies simply don't work that way. Prime example of folks throwing around technical terms that they don't really understand. Leave it to politicians to—"

"Any more _thoughtful_ hypotheses?" Asher asked.

Thadesch smiled:

"Yes, in fact. And this one's more technically sound than the other theory: some of the council members believe that the Frostblessor is 'waking up', that the Gods of Your Forefathers are ending the mountain's slumber in anticipation of the final judgment of all kitty-kind."

Asher cocked his head at the toad; he scowled dangerously.

"I said that it was _more _technically sound than the other theories. I never said that it was _actually _technically sound, in and of itself."

"What's the overall geology we're working with, here?" Fionnghal asked. "Is the mountain unstable?"

"Not in the slightest," Thadesch said. "If it were ever 'put to sleep' by the gods in the past then it's a particularly restful sleep. The mountain's internal structure is sound as a pound, and it doesn't even have a history of volcanic activity, either. One simply cannot imagine such a peaceful dreamer waking with such a violent start."

Asher looked over at Fionnghal; his nose wrinkled with a mirthful snort:

"Actually..."

The rat quickly scowled at him.

"What about a singularity?" Sonic looked back at the toad. "Quantum Effects, maybe?"

Thadesch snapped his bulbous fingers:

"Now, my dear hedgehog, you're talking. It seems the most likely explanation, anyway."

Fionnghal stared at the logs beneath her feet, lip in her teeth:

"But... it _couldn't_ be. Could it? 'Bending of metal'? That'd be a very strange effect. And it's spread over such a large area, too. No Quantum Effect ever made has that kind of range."

"Then it might simply be an effect that we've never seen before," Asher said.

"At least you happen to have a way up," Thadesch noted.

Fionnghal's eyes widened:

"Oh, crud..."

Fringe was now their greatest asset, but also their most damning liability. Everyone in Ubasti had seen Fionnghal's dramatic entrance into town, her shoulders supported by the chaffinch's talons. Pascale and the ruling council _knew _that Theta Tribe had a chaffinch, and they certainly knew that Asher and Fionnghal were unlikely to let a mystery like this go unsolved. They didn't have much time to work with. Fionnghal radioed Fringe to meet them at the mountain base, also admonishing the chaffinch to look out for any possible tails that might follow her.

This warning was met with a _very _indignant harrumph from the other end of the radio.

"We don't have much time," Fionnghal growled as she unbuckled her metal belt. Asher handed his sawn-off shotgun to Thadesch. The toad also reached out for Fionnghal's sword, but the rat shook her head. She borrowed some loose plastic fastenings from the log bridge and made an impromptu belt out of it, letting her sword dangle awkwardly from it.

"_Curtainrod's _Quantum Effects should protect it from any external threats," she said. "At least, I _think _it will."

"We'll call it an experiment," the toad shrugged.

Sonic began walking across the bridge, but Asher stopped him:

"Um, Sonic, with those metal braces... I mean, I know you think that the Quantum Effects will protect them, but they arewrapped against your _legs_. You really want to 'experiment' with your legson the line?"

"I've got _four _total QEDs in these braces," the hedgehog boasted. "I can't imagine a force on this planet strong enough to overcome that."

"_Five _QEDs, maybe?" Thadesch smiled sunnily.

The hedgehog looked back at him, arms crossed. He scowled.

"Maybe not," the toad mumbled. "Well, do be careful, you reckless young fools. In any event, while you three are mountaineering, I think I'll take the opportunity to meet with some... uh, well, other contacts. Information never sleeps, you know." Thadesch surveyed Asher's sawn-off, running one fat hand along the elegant double barrels. "Who knows: maybe I'll take my contacts out for a nice round of skeet shooting..."

Asher pointed at the toad:

"Thadesch: you fire that shotgun even _once_ and I'll stick that smoking pipe of yours so far up your—"

"Relax, o gentle Asher." Thadesch chuckled. "Why, you can trust me, completely!"

The toad returned to the jeep and drove off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

Asher crossed his arms.

"I swear: someday I think I really will have to kill that toad..."

"Thadesch is fine," Fionnghal surveyed the jagged mountain before them closely. "He just enjoys pressing your buttons because he thinks that he's smarter than you."

"Where the hell would he get that idea?" Asher growled.

"Dunno. Maybe because he _is_." Fionnghal flashed the cottontail a not-so-nice grin.

Asher followed the rat's gaze up the mountain:

"Aerial support or not, this is gonna be a major operation." He looked over at the rat. "We're gonna be up there for some time. I'm kinda surprised that you decided to leave your little pet under the care of that raccoon dog."

"Quinn will be fine, for now. And even though he's a canine, Katchy's alright. His sister is, too, apparently. I got Thadesch's report on them just yesterday: they're fully-vetted. More than that: Thadesch recommended they both be given permanent front-line duty in all combat operations. I guess they've been downplaying their combat abilities to us."

"They _are _awfully resilient, I'll give 'em that. But the toad didn't tell you _what _their combat experience is, exactly?"

Fionnghal shook her head.

"He tells me what I need to know, and I trust him to do that."

"_Completely_, Fionnghal?"

"Yes, completely."

"And just why is that, exactly?"

The rat slowly turned her head to face Asher. A smile formed at the corners of her mouth:

"I'll tell you," she said, "when _you_ need to know."

Fionnghal began crossing the timber bridge, moving up to meet Sonic, who also stared at the gigantic mountain before them.

Asher followed her, coming to her side:

"Speaking of 'need to knows', Fi. About Quinn..."

The rat stopped walking; she faced him.

"What about him?"

"You must realize that the more he sees of this planet— the more he travels around Mobius, the more he'll get around and actually _talks_ to others. That means, eventually, he's gonna 'know' a lot more things..."

"And?"

Asher shook his head, staring off to one side:

"Have you considered what... well, what may need to be done, if he ends up knowing too _much_?"

Fionnghal crossed her arms.

"Quinn is my responsibility, Ash. Trust me to keep my eyes on him. And you know Quinn well-enough by now: he's a reasonable little juvie. For a human..."

"All I know is that he's a danger, Fionnghal. And that's _because _he's a human. And dangers should be—"

"_Assessed_," the rat hissed. "And right now Quinn doesn't know anything. He's _not _a danger. If any of that changes, well..." the rat's eyes narrowed to slits. "Just trust me to keep my eyes on him..."

Asher seemed thoroughly unconvinced. He was ready to say more, but just then Sonic approached the pair, and Fionnghal desperately sought to change the subject.

"This mountain's gonna be dangerous," she cautioned. "Everybody up for it? Feelin' 'dangerous'?"

Sonic looked between Asher and Fionnghal. He let out a very small, cynical scoff, shaking his spiky head:

"Maybe _I_ feel a little more 'mischievous'..."

Asher's brow tilted upward. He let out a similar scoff:

"You know something? That's right. All we'd need is Tatu here, and we'd have the whole pack back together, wouldn't we?"

A shadow crested the horizon, Fringe was riding the last gusts of warm air, gliding against the brilliant backdrop of the setting sun. The chaffinch closed in fast on their position.

"Tat probably wouldn't be able to go, anyway," Fionnghal smirked. "He'd probably be grounded for fighting, or something."

Sonic crossed his arms. He tried not to smile, but failed:

"Probably for fighting _you_, too."

"What do you think we're gonna find up there?" Asher asked.

"No idea," Sonic growled. "We'll just have to keep on our toes. Investigate as best we can."

"_Explore _the situation, you mean?" Fionnghal winked.

The three animals looked at each other with a small, sudden burst of warmth. For the first time in a very _long _time Fionnghal felt that she was with _her _boys: her Mischief— the old gang. It was a very childish sentiment, she thought, and really nothing more than rank nostalgia. They were not little juvies, and their relationships with each other were deeply wounded, simpering behind a litany of old scars they'd dealt each other, and walls they'd built between themselves. Still, it was an amazing thing to feel: emotions that were buried that deep in their hearts— strangled by their cynical owners' maturation, and left to die in an ageless sleep— could awaken so easily, and from such a cold slumber, too. Maybe what they felt right now was nothing more than phantom pain: a hollow echo of emotion, like a reaction to a dream.

But she thought that it was a rather peaceful dream, at that. It made her smile.

Maybe that's all that mattered.

Fionnghal put her hand in the center of their group. Asher set his atop hers, and then Sonic very slowly added his own. They exchanged glances again, and everyone smiled. For just a moment— just a _fraction _of a second— Fionnghal thought she saw Sonic's smile— his _real _smile— slowly creeping up onto his face.

And it was beau—

Fringe landed in the dirt behind them, flitting her wings about extravagantly.

Sonic instantly pulled his hand back. His face reverted to that cold, noncommittal scowl and he faced away from the group.

"Right: we all ready, then?" He asked.

Fionnghal and Asher verbalized their assent.

"Then let's go exploring..."

.

.

.

**A Map of 'Mobius'** (remove the three spaces in the address):

_img856. imageshack. us/img856/4478/mobius. jpg_


	23. Eye Reveal

"Eye Reveal"

I.

A long, baleful shadow stretched across the jagged red rocks. Behind him the sun barely kissed the cusp of the horizon. Even here, so many thousands of feet above the sweeping plains of Uncia, night would have to come, eventually.

Hell, he might even live to see it.

Sonic leapt into the air, spinning his leg about in a roundhouse kick. The QEDs in his leg brace flared to life, and he swung his leg about in a supersonic blur, blasting a chunk out of the rock wall before him like a stick of dynamite. He came to a stop before the rock wall, same as before.

Except now that long shadow was hunched over, hands on its knees, body heaving with long, pained breaths.

Chunks of the blasted rock rained down all around the shelf, as well as the narrow path below.

"Ouch!"

Fionnghal rounded a corner of the path, one hand rubbing the scraggily fur on her head.

"Little warning next time?" She growled.

Sonic looked up at her. He still panted, but made an effort to stand up straight.

"There won't be a 'next time'," he said. "Probably not, anyway." He motioned to the mountain all around them, shaking his head. "This place is _horrible_..."

Fionnghal tilted her head, eyes narrowed. Suddenly she raised her brow, nodding:

"It's the air, isn't it?"

Asher rounded the corner behind the rat. He was wheezing a bit, himself.

"It is a bit thin," he huffed.

"Not for a little walking tour," Sonic said. "You're just out of shape, Ash." Sonic sat down on a nearby rock and tapped one of his leg braces. "It's the phasing. It eats up all my oxygen. There's not enough oxygen up here to replace it." He shook his head. "The air here is weak, like decaffeinated coffee. Goes in the same, but leaves a body drained..."

Asher trundled past the hedgehog. He couldn't help but smirk:

"Poor little Banshee," he patted the hedgehog's shoulder. "Sonic's so used to making that whiny little noise with his legs, and now he's gotta be content to make whiney little noises with his _mouth_."

The cottontail walked further up the trail, chuckling. Fionnghal came to Sonic's side; she surveyed the sheer drop-off behind him, leaning far out over the edge.

"Wouldn't go too far," Sonic said. "Not unless you're ready for a heck of a fall."

The rat suddenly looked over at him, her blue eyes piercing:

"Is that advice for me, or for _you_, Sonic?"

The hedgehog squinted at her:

"Huh?"

"We're sitting at a little less than 4000 meters, here," Fionnghal explained. "That's high altitude, but it's not _that _high. The air isn't thatthin."

"Your chaffinch wouldn't go any higher. And Ash certainly thinks it is—"

"Fringe is a sissy. And, like you said, Asher isn't in the best of shape. His ribs took their sweet time healing up after the _Filigree _invasion. Strength training hasn't been a priority for him. Poor guy isn't exactly starting his day with one-armed pull-ups on tree limbs with me."

"What's your point, Pew?"

"Phasing or no, you shouldn't be having that much trouble at this altitude, Sonic." The rat wandered closer to the rock wall Sonic demolished, running one finger along the jagged edges. "Of course, that's ifyour deterioration rate is actually sitting at 7-percent, like you told me before."

Sonic looked up at her.

"You calling me a liar?"

"I'm calling you 'secretive'." Fionnghal rested her back against the rocks, arms crossed. She slowly tilted her head. "And yeah, I'm calling you a liar..."

Sonic stood up and walked over to the rat, staring her down:

"Trying to pick a fight with me, Pew?"

"Not at all. You probably don't have the breath for it."

Sonic leaned forward, scowling. Fionnghal did likewise. Their noses nearly touched.

Asher poked his head around the corner:

"Beg pardon, juvies, but I think you'll both wanna see this. I think we're at the Paw."

The pair stared each other down for a few more seconds. Sonic finally prodded Fionnghal's sternum with his finger:

"My circulatory system runs like a well-oiled machine, Pew," he growled.

The hedgehog followed Asher up the narrow path, leaving Fionnghal to call after him:

"Oil is good, Sonic, but how much _gas_ does it have?"

Sonic's ear twitched. He looked back at the rat, his scowl deepening, and then he quickly resumed his ascent.

II.

The Frostblessor is a narrow mountain. Its central peak is only one of a multitude of crooked, winding spires rising off the rocks like gnarled horns. They were all named for various species of cat and random body parts thereof, regardless of the resemblance in most cases. After all, when naming a miscellaneous piece of rock it really doesn't matter if it looks like the object in question, so long as the ownership rights aren't in question. The Frostblessor was squarely in the center of kitty territory, and so there was no question as to naming rights. That's how the various limestone parapets rising off its body earned names such as 'Panther's Ear', 'Jaguar's Paw', and 'Cheetah's Claw'.

Give the cats credit: at least they showed some decorum and restraint when naming the phallic-shaped rocks after parts of their own anatomy. The more obvious nomenclature was left to giggling juvenile cats, who had their own names for the peaks, and whose minds went directly to the most obvious anatomical references. Incidentally, when juvenile cats refer to these peaks amongst themselves, all three of the above names are alliterative.

The largest of these peaks, though not the tallest, was the Jaguar's Paw. It was a blunt chunk of vertical limestone, and its wide base ensured that the western section of the summit ascent remained largely sheltered from the punishing, frosty winds that hammered the mountain in winter. Thankfully for Sonic, Asher and Fionnghal it was mid-Spring. The air was cold but not unbearable, and everyone's bodily fur combined with their clothing did just enough to keep them warm.

You wouldn't know it by the way Fionnghal set to shivering, though.

"Maybe we should call up Fringe and make her fly you up a poncho." Sonic passed by the rat, climbing the side of a very steep gradient just beyond the towering Paw.

"Let's just figure out where this 'signal' is coming from, 'kay?"

Asher's eyes wandered all along the steep summit ascent. He leaned against the base of the Jaguar's Paw, shrugging:

"Thadesch said the western slope. If it's not coming from the pillar itself, it's _gotta _be coming from the rocks around here..."

Sonic caught a breath in his throat. He realized he'd been breathing deeper and faster than usual. It wasn't because he was winded; his body had enough oxygen right now. What it lacked, for some ungodly reason, was nerves. His ears trembled against his head and a faint buzzing hit him square in the center of the brain, like a fly flitting through his skull. He looked back at Fionnghal very slowly. _Too _slowly. Sonic looked down at his necklace, only to find his Chaos Emerald glowing with a blinding pink luster. His heartbeat slowed, and each thump reverberated all along his ribs; he felt like every thump would send his heart bursting out his chest. His wide eyes must have shown a rising panic.

"What is it now?" Fionnghal asked.

"I think— I... Pew: I think that coming here was a _really_ big mistake..."

The coldness of his words chilled the rat. Fionnghal removed _Curtainrod_ from her makeshift plastic belt and gripped it tight in one hand.

"Sonic?" She stepped forward. "What are you—"

The earth broke away beneath her feet; Fionnghal screamed as her feet suddenly lost all contact with the ground. The rat fell into a pit of darkness below, along with an entire layer of small rocks and soil wedged over a circular hole in the mountain. Asher raced over to the hole, leaning over the edge.

"Fi!" He called into the darkness. "Hey, Fi! _Fionnghal_!"

"_What_!?"

Asher pulled his head back a bit, cocking his brow:

"Uh... are you okay?"

"Oh, sure. _Dandy_. My tail broke my fall..."

Sonic slowly got to one knee. A wave of nausea swam over him and bile bubbled up in the base of his throat. The hedgehog willed his body to be still, and he gingerly got to his feet once again, breathing hard. He stared down at his shoes, wiggling his head to and fro. It was then that he noticed a black streak burned into the flat plain of the rocks before him. He scuffed it with his shoe; traces of black dust scattered into the wind.

Harsh blue light erupted from the darkness below. It shifted in intensity as Fionnghal waved her sword to and fro.

"There's a chasm down here," Fionnghal yelled. "Looks almost like a tunnel. It goes up into the summit ascent."

Asher looked back at Sonic:

"Do we follow the tunnel, or—"

Sonic wordlessly walked by the cottontail and dropped down into the hole, disappearing from view.

"Right," Asher grumbled.

The trio followed the narrow tunnel for about five minutes. Fionnghal took the lead, with her burning sword stretched before her. They came to a complicated set of piled rocks, and as they set their feet atop each one of them, rising up slowly in the darkness, Asher came to a very disquieting realization.

"We're going up in circles," he whispered. "It's not often you see that kind of thing in nature."

"A spiral staircase, you mean?" Sonic smirked.

The winding staircase ended abruptly at another cavern exit, this one also covered with small rocks and soil. The trio emerged onto a very narrow precipice dominated by pointed rocks and buffeted by harsh winds. After a few seconds of aimless meandering they found a small overhang just beyond the cavern entrance, and this overhang continued up under the mountainside. It was almost immediately clear that the rockwork here was excavated.

That was doubly clear when they came to an iron door.

"Kitties have been busy," Fionnghal muttered. "Pascale was hiding more than I thought."

"I don't think this is the cats' work," Asher said.

"Who else could it be?" She said.

"Better question," Sonic interrupted: "'who are we gonna find on the other side of this door'?"

Fionnghal looked around the cavern, contemplating strategy.

"Alright: I think that Ash should get over there, and be ready with a rock or two if things get dicey. I'll cut out the lock and get to the left side of the door in anticipation of any bum rushes, and Sonic—"

One of the hedgehog's legs whipped about in a blur, slamming squarely into the heavy door. It came loose from its hinges and tumbled back into the corridor beyond.

"...will be recklessly impatient. As usual." Asher smirked.

Sonic walked into the darkness of the corridor, but Fionnghal grabbed his shoulder:

"Damn it, Sonic! We're trying to go in with a _plan_, here."

He ignored her, walking forward without hesitation.

"And what kind of strategy is just blindly racing into a pitch-black tunnel, huh?" She growled.

"Two things," Sonic answered. "One: it's not 'pitch black'. My emerald's glowing, and you've just got terrible night vision, Pew. Two: I don't see anyone in here, so..."

Asher and Fionnghal followed Sonic, but from a very large distance. They both started when the electric hum of motors sounded all around them. Sparks cracked, electricity flared, and suddenly the chamber was awash in the light of computer monitors and harsh yellow floods. All around them wires and cables snaked about, dangling off of rather expensive-looking equipment. The chamber was filled with supply crates and benches bearing all manner of scientific equipment. Three corridors branched off the main room, and wires ran all along them, hooked up to harsh floodlights. The place smelled of fresh earth and rot in about equal measure, punctuated by the caustic scent of some kind of disinfectant.

Sonic stood in the middle of all this, leaning against a large workstation, his finger still pressed against the main breaker. He was fighting a hot scent of bile burning through his nostrils.

"You okay?" Fionnghal asked.

"Dandy," he grumbled.

Asher wandered along the rows of equipment, his stern face highlighted by the ghostly blue glow of monitors.

"What the hell is all this?" He muttered. "Some kind of research lab?"

"Research _outpost_."

Sonic wagged his head slowly, recovering from his nausea. He turned his attention to the main monitor, pecking at keys with his fingers. He didn't get far before a logon screen blazed across the monitor. It had a line for a password, and above that it bore a certain familiar symbol.

Asher inspected the equipment:

"This isn't just some simple cat operation," he muttered. "The tech doesn't match. Whose outpost is this?"

"Delts," Sonic answered, black eyes reflecting the symbol on the monitor.

Instantly Fionnghal brought _Curtainrod _up closer to her body. Asher instinctively reached for his sawn-off under his vest, only to find the space empty. He growled in exasperation.

Fionnghal and Asher moved closer to Sonic, each of them eyeing one of the opposing corridors branching off the main chamber.

"What the hell is Delta Tribe doing running a research lab in the Frostblessor Mountain?" Fionnghal hissed.

"The equipment looks like is hasn't been used in a while," Asher said. "There's dust on all the keyboards, and mold growing in a bunch of the equipment."

"What happened, then?"

Sonic put his back to the monitor, leaning against it casually:

"Whatever phenomenon hit the kitties down at the base of the mountain must've hit the Delts, too—"

"Or the Delts _caused _it," Asher said.

"Don't see how they could've. Purposefully, at least. That little plateau near the Jaguar's Paw was the landing pad for their aircraft; the rock was scarred with exhaust fumes. Whatever operation they were running here, they were probably dependent upon landing aircraft for supplies. Afternoon drops, I'd guess, when the sun's just right in the sky to mask their approach. Anyway, if they _created_ the phenomenon, then they would also put their own supply line at risk."

Fionnghal looked around the cavern, clicking her tongue:

"This setup took a lot time to get on its feet; who knows how long it was in use?"

Sonic shrugged. He began walking past the main computer, reaching the central corridor before Asher hissed at him:

"Sonic! What're you doing?"

Sonic looked back at him:

"Exploring. Natch."

"There could still be Delts in here, you know!"

The hedgehog shrugged:

"They haven't been taking very good care of their equipment if there are. Anyway, I aim to find out what the heck was going on, here. If you two wanna do the same, I suggest you check out those other two corridors."

The cottontail sneered at the hedgehog, watching him approach the central corridor.

"Reckless, ain't he?" Fionnghal smirked.

Asher shook his head:

"I guess not, really. With all his special 'powers', that is. Gotta say: I preferred him back when he _wasn't _the frickin' Banshee. Wonder if he even remembers what it's like to be a mere 'mortal'." Asher looked to one side, his brow furrowed. "You know, I wonder how he'd act _without _all those bells and whistles attached. There was a time when he was at least a little humble, you know—"

"You know I can hear you, right, Ash?" Sonic said.

"Counting on it, Sonic."

Fionnghal smiled as she looked down the corridor behind her. She started moving off, but Asher stopped her:

"You too? Seriously?" He looked at Sonic, and then back at Fionnghal. "And you're sure that you guys aren't blood relatives?" The cottontail looked down the corridor stretched before him. "Besides, I don't even have..."

"A pair?" Sonic smirked.

"A _weapon_," Asher whipped his head about and snarled at the hedgehog.

Fionnghal put _Curtainrod _on the lab table and forcefully slid it down the tabletop. Asher caught it by the hilt and looked at the rat curiously:

"Uh, you sure you wanna let me use this?" He asked. "What about you—"

Fionnghal wordlessly grabbed the nearest glass beaker by the neck and smashed it against the table, creating a frightening mess of razor-sharp, jagged edges. She looked back at Asher, wiggling her brow playfully.

"Proud of yourself, are you?" He asked.

"I try to find joy in the simple things," she said.

"Everyone make sure to thoroughly check their hallways," Sonic said. "And don't worry if you run into any Delts," he looked back at Asher with a smirk. "All you gotta do is holler. I'll come running."

Asher wagged his head, muttering to himself as he descended into his corridor.

III.

Their search of the outpost revealed no signs of any member of Delta Tribe. Not any _living _member, anyway. When Sonic returned from his survey he found Fionnghal waiting for him.

She had found the first corpse. She didn't even recognize it as a body at the time, due to the fact that it was sandwiched amongst a mess of metal girders and digging equipment. The machines were destroyed in a manner that seemed impossible, as if a giant hand stretched itself out from the earth and gripped everything in one massive fistful, squeezing it like putty. It was only when she returned from exploring her corridor that she noticed the sliver of a tail sticking out of that wreckage. Dried blood dotted the twisted metal, but she couldn't see any further inside the hellish scrap.

She told him she was pretty thankful for that.

"Even you've got your limits when it comes to blood and guts, huh?" Sonic smirked.

"When I'm not the one exposing them, yes," she said.

Asher joined them soon after, and they soon discovered that the entire little outpost was one big horror story.

"Two bodies in mine," Asher said. "Looks like one of them got too intimate with a steel girder..."

Fionnghal cocked her head.

"Well," Asher said, "I'd call having a girder pierce your chest cavity and leave what remains of your heart on its jagged little tip to be 'intimate'..."

"Same in my corridor," Sonic said.

Asher and Fionnghal looked at him.

"Really?" They both said at once.

Sonic shrugged:

"Replace 'steel girder' with 'hydraulic press'. And replace 'heart' with 'digestive system'..."

Fionnghal shivered beneath her fur. Sonic looked over at Asher:

"Your corridor had two, did it? What about the second body?"

"Gunshot," Asher sat on a nearby lab table. "Close range, too."

"You sure?" Sonic asked. "These bodies are pretty far gone, decomposition-wise."

"Pretty sure. It looked like a shotgun, actually. And I _know_ my shotguns..."

Fionnghal leaned against another table and shook her head:

"What the hell happened here?"

Sonic eyed the main computer, staring at the symbol for Delta Tribe, and the small line for a password below. Asher followed the hedgehog's gaze.

"Think we can crack that thing?" The cottontail asked.

Fionnghal shook her head.

"Hacking's not exactly my forte—"

"The _electronic_ kind, anyway," Sonic said.

"If we just had Tails here..." she shook her head. "Or maybe Thadesch could do it."

"Good luck getting our slender little chaffinch to carry that fat toad up here," Asher said. "She'd be lucky getting his wart-covered rear end off the ground, let alone all the way up here."

Fionnghal motioned to a small antenna sitting on the desk beside the console:

"That device probably has enough oomph in it to send a signal all the way to the Dolamiram, or at least a Delta Tribe relay station that could route the signal that far. They were probably updating somebody in the ranks about their progress here. If we could just _access _the damn thing..."

Sonic slowly approached the console. He looked back at the rat and the cottontail:

"Turn around, both of you."

"Why?" Fionnghal asked. "Don't tell me you've spent the past few years in your little rotten cave learning how to hack advanced computer systems?"

Asher waved a dismissive paw:

"Whatever the Delts were up to here they sure as heck weren't gonna let the kitties know about it." He said. "The encryption on that thing's gotta be phenomenal."

Sonic rolled his eyes:

"I'm not gonna hack it," he said.

"What: you're gonna put in the password?" Asher chuckled.

When Sonic didn't react Fionnghal became curious:

"You think... maybe, that you might _know_—"

"I've got a one in three shot, I think," Sonic shrugged.

Asher got to his feet:

"Woah, woah ,woah: you _know _Eggman's codes?"

"I _might _know," Sonic said.

The cottontail's eyes narrowed:

"One: why didn't you tell us this sooner? And two: just why the hell do we have to turn around?"

"One: because you didn't—"

"Do _not _say 'didn't ask'—"

"And two: because I don't wantyou to know Eggman's codes," Sonic said.

"Sonic, if you know his codes then you've _gotta_—"

"Tell you?" The hedgehog scoffed. "No, I don't. I'm a neutral party, remember? Giving you guys Eggman's codes would be—"

"Smart," Fionnghal grumbled.

"_Partisan_," Sonic finished.

Asher slowly approached the hedgehog. He wagged Fionnghal's sword in his face, and Sonic slowly rested one hand on the blade, pushing it away from him.

"Sonic, my father once taught me that standing in the middle of the road is a _really_ good way to get yourself run over."

The hedgehog narrowed his eyes:

"Nice metaphor, Asher. I've got one for you, too: threatening an angry hedgehog with QED braces in his legs that channel enough quantum energy to give him godlike speed and amazing strength is a good way to get _yourself _run over."

Asher closed the distance, looming over Sonic and staring him down with those dark brown eyes. Sonic stood his ground, slowly balling his fists.

"Got anything else to say, hedgehog?"

"Yeah, I've got a simile for you, too," Sonic whispered. "You're behaving like a horse's—"

"That's enough," Fionnghal wedged herself between the males, forcing them apart. "I can only handle so much testosterone in a room..." She motioned to the console with her head. "Sonic, if you think you can crack that computer, then do it." She looked at Asher and put a finger to his lips before he could speak: "And we can argue about all this later. For now, just turn around and button your lip..."

The cottontail fumed, but he eventually relented. Sonic approached the console, checking once to make sure Fionnghal and Asher's backs were turned, and then he leaned down over the keyboard. He stared at the keys for some time, his black eyes probing. He ran his fingers along the keyboard, clucking his tongue. He closed his eyes and drew a long breath.

"It'd be Innie, wouldn't it, Ivo?" Sonic whispered.

He typed out one word: 'Innusha'.

He stared at it for a moment before pressing the enter key.

Fionnghal crossed her arms and shook her head:

"Sonic? You got anything? If you don't, then—"

"Quiet," he growled. "It worked."

Fionnghal and Asher turned around to see Sonic already surfing through the computer's files.

"What do we have?" Fionnghal asked.

"Not much, I don't think. It looks like all communications coming from the Dolamiram were deleted," Sonic said.

"Security measure, maybe?" Fionnghal looked at Asher, who nodded his agreement.

Asher rather impolitely nudged the hedgehog away from the console and went to clacking at the keys with his own bony fingers.

"Communications _to _the Dolamiram are a different story," Asher motioned to the screen with his head, pointing with his horns. "They saved those video files directly to the hard drive on this computer, and not all of them were deleted."

"_Lapse _in security, maybe?" Fionnghal said.

"SOP would've been to destroy this console outright if they were going to abandon the facility. Or if there was a serious emergency."

Sonic scoffed:

"Think they might've had one of those," he muttered.

"Whatever happened must've happened quick," Fionnghal said. "Too quick for them to cover their tracks."

Sonic nodded. He walked a few feet away from the screen. The bile was rising in his throat again, and again he felt a constriction in his chest, as if a knotted rope were being tightened around the flesh of his lungs. He thought he felt eyes on him, the gaze of some terrible stranger boring into his brain. He looked all around the chamber, seeing nothing, breathing even harder.

The emerald around his neck smoldered.

Sonic leaned down against a table and drew a few short breaths as Asher and Fionnghal inspected the computer files. He brought his head up abruptly when Asher called his name:

"You making popcorn over there, or something?" She asked. "Do you want in on this, or what?"

"Bring up the videos," Sonic growled. "Sequentially."

Asher scoffed.

"I already am. Not that I have to take any orders from you, hedgehog."

"Yeah, you do." Sonic approached the console.

"You got more authority than a _prince_, Sonic?"

"_Exiled _prince. And the bodies we just found _give _me authority. I'm a Speedster, remember? Technically I'm acting in Nix Acinó's stead right now. That's _if _we're gonna go by the Code of the Tribes..."

"You're not actually gonna tell the cats about all this?" Fionnghal scowled at him.

"We'll see," Sonic said. "I never really was a big fan of the Code..."

Asher finished toying with the computer files and got the first one running. As the screen went black and the video started playing he looked back at Sonic a few times.

"_What_?" Sonic snarled.

"I thought there was gonna be popcorn..."

Sonic growled.

"Gods, we're dysfunctional." Fionnghal muttered.

The screen flickered and flared. Solid black turned to gray, and then the gray was replaced with brilliant white light, offset by blurry blobs. The blobs slowly came into focus, and then they were treated to a view of the computer console chair itself. Within seconds a body came into view and sat in the chair. It was a lizard, wide-mouthed and thin, with brilliant yellow coloration all along his limbs. Black specks dotted his body at regular intervals.

"Alright," the lizard said. "I guess this'll officially be communication number one, day number one."

"It's a leopard gecko," Fionnghal noted.

"Delta Tribe has a sense of humor," Asher grumbled. "Who knew?"

The most striking aspect of this gecko, however, wasn't his species name. The lizard's eyes were encased in a solid metal band riveted into his skull with cruel-looking screws. It was like a pair of goggles, if said goggles had completely replaced the flesh and bone of his upper face. The apparatus ran along his head, ending at the base of his sunken ears. Two shining lenses glistened over the gecko's eyes, and Sonic quickly realized that these were, in fact, attached to metal _tubes_. The gods only knew how far those metal tubes sunk back into the animal's head, but Sonic guessed they went quite a ways. There was nothing in those cylinders but angled slabs of crystal lenses as far as the eye could see.

Sonic cocked his head.

"No pun intended," he muttered.

"Huh?" Fionnghal looked at him.

"Nothing."

The gecko finished rifling through some papers attached to his clipboard and again addressed the camera:

"With this mission's secrecy a top priority we'll be using our codenames exclusively, as ordered. That said, this is agent 'Iron Eyes'—"

"No kidding," Asher mumbled.

"—head of the research survey team for Operation _Tilt-a-Whirl_. Obviously our communications station is set-up, and excavation of the summit ascent cavern is on schedule."

Behind the leopard gecko several other animals milled about, some carrying scientific equipment, others wearing hard hats and lugging heavy mining equipment. A warthog passed close by the gecko's chair; he said something, but the mike didn't pick up his words. The gecko responded with a hearty laugh and a slap against the warthog's side as he passed. He returned his attention to the camera:

"So far the crew's in good spirits. Good enough for the kind of backbreaking labor involved, anyway. We've set up monitoring instruments in the portion of the cavern already excavated, but we're not getting any readings from them, yet. It's still early, of course, and the dig is ongoing."

Another voice distracted the gecko as he spoke; he chuckled and playfully tossed his pencil off-camera, in the speaker's direction.

"On a personal note: this thin altitude may be getting to some of my colleagues, who are prone to fits of ridiculous childishness and extreme jackassery..."

The pencil returned to its sender, striking the gecko right in the chest. He laughed, leaning back in his chair:

"Seriously, though: right now we believe that if the objective _is _here then we should get some kind of reading on our equipment within the week. The dig itself will take longer, naturally, although obviously we won't be here for all of that, assuming our relief crew is still on-schedule to replace us within the next ten days..."

The gecko looked off-camera as someone again spoke to him. He grinned, returning his gaze to the camera:

"Oh, yes, and the digging crew is requesting a hearty helping of 'liquid rations' when the relief crew makes it up here. Officially I must disapprove of such a request..." The gecko leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Although _unofficially_ I'd say they deserve it. Everyone here is doing fantastic work."

The video abruptly cut out, leaving only static blaring across the screen.

"They were looking for something," Fionnghal said.

"An 'objective' buried in the rock," Asher nodded. He brought up the next video on the computer. "This one looks like it was recorded a few days later."

The screen flickered to life; this video was not recorded at the main console chair, but rather inside one of the outpost's branching corridors. The screen was centered on an upturned box of equipment beside a fold-out table. Several animals walked past the camera, all of them covered in dirt. The leopard gecko's voice sounded from off-screen; he spoke in a pained, quiet whisper:

"Ah, great. Thanks..."

Soon the gecko wandered into the frame, sitting down on the upturned box. He held a small mug in his hand, and he quickly gulped down a long draught of liquid before speaking. Whatever the liquid was, it was foaming quite heartily along the mug's edge.

"Right," the gecko said, "this is communication number three, day number three. Iron Eyes reporting for the survey team." He took another long swig from his mug before continuing. "Excavation is progressing ahead of schedule, which is good. Instruments are still showing no change in readings, which is inconclusive. We're no closer to proving that the objective is here, but we haven't disproven anything, either." The gecko watched the dirty workers walk past him, lumbering out into the main chamber. He set his mug down on the table and stared down the black maw of the half-finished corridor. A stray gust of wind ruffled the sleeves of his shirt. He drew a slow breath:

"It's funny," he said, "but as we dig deeper I feel... something. It's something good; a hopeful feeling. With every scoop of earth and rock that we pull out I feel my heart skip a little, like I'm a juvie on my birthday morning, waking up to find a present wrapped at the foot of my bed right by my feet. Each spoonful of dirt feels like we're pulling a small sliver of wrapping paper off the present..."

The gecko sat up quickly, wagging his head. He looked back down at the camera and smiled:

"What I mean to say, I think, is that I have a very good feeling about this operation."

Static again hissed across the screen.

Asher worked the keyboard:

"These other files are damaged," he said. "Looks like the next intact video is from five days later. It has a different filename from the others." Asher looked back at Sonic and Fionnghal: "I don't think this one was meant for their superiors; it might be a personal message."

"I'm sure he won't mind if we peek," Fionnghal smirked.

Sonic scratched his chin; he stared at his shoes.

"Something on your mind?" Fionnghal asked.

"That gecko," he muttered. "He looks... really familiar."

Asher scoffed:

"I think you'd remember if you ever met a freak-show like that in person," he said. "I kinda feel bad looking at his face without buying an admission ticket..."

The video opened on the leopard gecko sitting outside the cavern entrance. He ate from a silver bag of rations; they looked like dried worms.

"Got a minute free, for once," he looked down at the camera with a warm smile. "I can't really talk about things here, too much. I can't even call you by your name. But I did want to get a message to you, at least. Egg— er, the _boss_ was very nice to give me permission to send you this message when I asked about it in my last broadcast."

"He was gonna say 'Eggman'," Fionnghal muttered. "That gecko's broadcasts were going directly to Eggman. Whatever they were doing up here, it must've been ridiculously important."

The gecko swallowed another mouthful of dried worms. He shook the nearly-empty bag back and forth, frowning:

"I can tell you that I miss you, and I can only assume that you miss me. We're gonna have to keep on missing each other for a little while longer, dear. They're delaying our relief crew out here; I won't be coming back in a few days, as planned. The boss is preoccupied with some other development going on. I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but it has to do with a fluctuation he found in the Rainbow. Gotta be nothing, of course. It always is. But maybe he thinks that something's actually gonna come through the Rainbow this time. Rubbish. Wouldn't be the first time we've wasted a bunch of resources looking up at the damn thing..."

"Well, now we've got a timeframe to work with," Asher said. "These recordings must've been made right before the _Rainbow Runner _came in."

The gecko finished off the bag, chewing the worms ravenously. He picked up his metal mug and began drinking a fizzy beverage.

"You can probably see that I'm hitting the ol' pain tablets again," he held up the frothy mug, wagging it back and forth. "It's nothing. Where I am right now, well, the climate dishes out some seriously wicked pressure fronts, and _those_ dish out some seriously wicked headaches. Nothing I can't handle. Still, though, they're strong enough to remind me of... the time I had my accident..." The gecko scratched at the metal band running along his head. "But, no; you know, I'm really overstating it..."

The gecko leaned down closer to the camera, getting to his haunches:

"Dear, I can't tell you what we're doing here, right now, but I can tell you that we're looking for something the boss really, really wants. And I really do think it's here. I _know _it's here. And when I find it— when our _team_ finds it— I'll be in the boss's good graces like you wouldn't believe. Enough that we can finally get you to the top of the patient list to treat your crypto. No more of those damned half-measure drug treatments; you'll be first in line for that high-power gene therapy overhaul of your immune system. All I gotta do is a catch some little trinket for the boss, and I promise you that for the rest of your life you won't even catch a _cold_."

Shadows danced along the cavern entrance; the gecko looked behind him and nodded his head.

"Right," he yelled. "Make sure the buttresses are secure!" He looked back at the camera. "Duty calls, dear. Talk to you later."

The gecko reached down to turn off the camera, but was distracted by a few stray drops of yellow gunk on his shirt. He felt along the outer rim of one of his metal eye tubes and discovered a small trickle of yellow fluid oozing along the cylinder.

"Huh," he muttered. "That's interesting. Didn't think I was getting _that _emotional." He smirked and winked at the camera, and then stopped the recording, plunging the monitor back into static.

"He seemed confident that they'd find what they were looking for," Fionnghal noted.

Asher looked around the darkened outpost:

"Maybe they did find it. Maybe that's the problem." He cocked his brow: "Oh, and the guy's SO has crypto? I was under the impression that there _wasn't_ any cure for crypto..."

Sonic's eyes also wandered around the dark chamber; he muttered back to Asher with obvious disinterest:

"Through Eggman all things are possible. He can cure the sickest of the sick. He even goes after the toughest of all diseases in all the pesky 'lesser' species on our planet—"

Asher whipped his head around:

"I never said _any _species was a 'lesser' one, Sonic—"

"Your dynasty did. That's a fact. And that's one of about fifty reasons your father's city fell. And it's also the reason that Delta Tribe is handing you guys your backsides on a regular basis, today—"

"Enough with the politics," Fionnghal growled. "When does the next recording come in?"

Asher checked the computer:

"Two days later." The cottontail cocked his head, squinting at the screen. "And it's a short one. _Really _short."

The monitor's static cleared to reveal a wildly shaking image. Carved rock whipped past the screen as the camera bobbed about. Someone was running very quickly with it. Excited shouts echoed throughout the tunnel, and suddenly the cameraman slid down to his knees, pointing the camera lens at the deepest recess of the corridor, where rough earth and rock still waited to be chipped apart. The leopard gecko came into view, his body pressed up against the jagged earth. He held up a small pad in one hand; a metered gauge rested at the end of it, along with a measurement needle.

"What is that?" Fionnghal asked. "Energy analyzer?"

"Looks like it," Asher mumbled.

The camera zoomed in on the gauge, and the gecko barked at everyone to be quiet. A few seconds passed, and suddenly the needle began to quiver. The quivering turned to wild fluctuations, and then, quite suddenly, the needle nosedived to the low end of the gauge. Sparks exploded all along the gauge's frame. A few of the diggers shouted in surprise, and the camera quickly panned up. A swaying light bulb on a string above them dimmed, and then the bulb burst.

A grating hum suddenly burst through the speakers. The noise chilled Sonic's blood. It was a terrible bass tremble— so _very _deep— and the noise seemed to roll back and forth between his ears like waves crashing on a beach in a storm. The 'beach' in question was his brain, and it damn-well felt like that horrible sound was stripping the surface of his head right off.

Sonic slowly sat down on a nearby stool, head bowed. The emerald around his neck burned like a coal, bathing his face in obscene pink light. How could Asher and Fionnghal stand it? Sonic looked up at them, about to scream for them to cut the playback, but the gecko was good enough to do it for him.

"Shut the camera off!" The gecko screamed from off-screen.

"What? Why?" The cameraman asked.

"Why? Are you serious? Can't you _hear_ that? Now shut it of—"

A burst of garbled static exploded across the speakers, and then everything was serene white snow and the usual innocuous hissing.

"Some kinda energy?" Fionnghal muttered.

"No, it wasn't," Asher shook his head. "That needle wasn't trending _up_. It was going in the other direction." He looked back at the rat. "Energy wasn't going _into _the analyzer. It was being pulled out of it..."

Sonic clucked his tongue; he wrapped his arms around his torso, staring down at his shoes:

"Can't be..." he mumbled.

"The next video is from less than 12 hours after that," Asher opened the file.

The camera was roughly dropped on a tabletop. Across from it, sitting on another table, was a chair-sized chunk of stone. The gecko suddenly sat down in front of the camera lens. He was gulping down a mug of frothy water, and he motioned off-screen with one hand. He looked at the camera, his drawn lips suddenly twisting up into a beaming smile:

"'Iron Eyes', here. This is communication number 21, day 11." He slowly leaned forward, and he hissed his next three words in a precise, triumphal staccato:

"We _found_ it."

One of the team members walked in front of the camera, depositing a second mug of frothy water on the table beside the gecko. The gecko nodded at him briefly.

"The readings are all there," the gecko explained to the camera. "Or, rather, the _lack _of readings..."

He raised an apologetic finger to the camera as he grabbed the new mug and chugged its contents down in one fell swoop. Afterward he tossed the mug aside, winching, and he gripped the metal gear on his forehead. When he pulled his hand away Sonic noticed a stray train of yellow goo on the gecko's fingers. The gecko seemed not to notice:

"Now, it's a delicate matter, removing the rubble surrounding it." He looked back at the small boulder on the table. "We must be methodical, and we must be careful..." He looked back at the camera, and when he did Sonic noticed a faint line of yellow fluid training down one of his metal eye-cylinders. "That said, I'm confident we'll be ready for pick-up in a few days. I know that it's in there, buried in the rock. It almost... almost _sings_, to be uncovered..."

Once again the gecko looked back at the rock behind him. His words trailed off as he spoke:

"We just... we have to be methodical. And we must be careful..."

After that there was nothing but static.

Sonic walked back to the cavern entrance. He crossed his arms and stared out beyond the cavern overhang. The air inside the dank cavern was smothering him, and so he walked outside.

Fionnghal came out to join him a few minutes later:

"You gonna tell me what's up with you, or do I have to guess? You look like you're gonna melt apart at the seams."

"I... kinda feel like the world's ending," Sonic muttered. He shook his head. "It's nothing, I think. Nerves..."

"Asher can't find any more videos. None that weren't erased, that is. He's working on the computer, but..." she shook her head. "I dunno. What the heck were they mining up here? It can't be an emerald fragment, can it? I don't suppose you have a guess?"

Asher emerged from the cavern overhang. He bore a slim cigarette in his mouth, and as he walked he lit it and exhaled a luxurious plume of smoke:

"The way he's acting I don't think Sonic _has _to guess."

Sonic looked back at Asher; he said nothing.

"You've got an idea, at least. So now what? Are you gonna keep it all safe and secret, like Eggman's passwords?" The tip of Asher's cigarette highlighted his deep brown eyes; they glowed with a deadly luster in the waning daylight. "How about it, Sonic: are we worthy of _this _information, or do you wanna keep it all to yourself, too?"

Fionnghal looked back at Sonic, who looked away from both of them. He slowly shook his head:

"I _don't _have to guess," he growled. Sonic faced his compatriots, scowling. "Delta Tribe was here looking for one of the Chaos Emeralds. And they found it."

Asher's breath stopped for a moment. The cottontail merely stared at Sonic, his face noncommittal, and then he released a slow stream of smoke from his lips:

"A Chaos Emerald," he muttered. "One of the 'eyes of the big potato', huh?"

"One of the 'bubbles in the crust'," Sonic corrected him.

"What?"

"Never mind," The hedgehog shook his head. "Somehow Eggman tracked down a Chaos Emerald to the Frostblessor. Must've crashed right into the mountain after the Master Emerald exploded." He walked along the overhang, kicking up dirt with one foot. "Fast. Hot. Tunneled into the mountain and left a train of molten rock in its wake. It was here, _right_ here." Sonic pointed at the outpost entrance. "Sleeping."

"But— I mean, could a Chaos Emerald somehow be responsible for everything the kitties were experiencing on the ground?" Fionnghal asked.

Asher gestured at Sonic with his chin:

"Well, hisemerald has the power to slow down the passage of time for _him_. Who knows what other kind of messed-up powers the other Chaos Emeralds hold?"

Sonic's eyes widened. He looked at Fionnghal, snarling angrily. The rat held up a finger, wagging it back and forth:

"I didn't tell him any of that. Asher figured it out on his own."

"Mostly because I'm not an idiot," Asher said. "But I do have a question for you, Sonic. Let's assume the Delts _did_ find another Chaos Emerald up here. Is it true that your emerald _only _works for you, or did you make that part up? Don't give me the run around, either. This is important."

Sonic nodded. He casually slipped the emerald off his neck and bobbed it in his hand:

"Given the circumstances, that _is _a valid question," the hedgehog admitted. "Here."

Sonic handed the stone to Asher, who took it with a quizzical frown. He turned it over in his hands.

"Uh, okay... so, if you wanna turn in on, how do you—"

The cottontail had a split second to look up before Sonic's fist connected with his solar plexus. Asher crashed down to one knee, sputtering, and Sonic squatted down beside him, smirking.

"Damn it, Sonic!" Fionnghal growled.

"What? I sure as heck wasn't gonna punch _you_," he said.

"Do you think you could demonstrate your little toy _without_ sucker-punching someone?"

He looked back at her:

"Yeah, but that wouldn't be as much fun..."

Asher took a minute getting to his feet. If he bared his teeth any further they might pop right out of his head.

"If my emerald were gonna work for you," Sonic explained, "then it would've started its little light show the minute you saw my fist coming for you. It would've bored right into your brain, Ash, and turned down the tempo for you." Sonic swiped the emerald back from the cottontail. "All you would've needed was to see the danger, feel your pulse quicken, get a good, wide-eyed panic going, and then..." he shrugged. "But, anyway, it _didn't_ work for you." Sonic put the thing back around his neck. "It never works for anyone else."

The hedgehog faced away from Asher, who was already balling one fist tight. He looked like he might take a step toward Sonic, but suddenly he smirked. He started laughing, and hard enough to nearly wind himself.

"What?" Fionnghal asked.

"Just a little extrapolation," he chuckled, pointing at Sonic. "I just figured it out: if that thing only works the way Sonic says it does, then what does that mean?"

Sonic faced Asher; he wiggled his brow and shrugged.

"I dunno, Ash. _What_?"

"Every time you phase out, using those leg braces, you must be scared to death! You're talking about a quick pulse? You're talking about _panic_? Ha! That's exactly what you must feel every time you show off with those things. Admit it: those QED braces _terrify _you—"

"They do terrify me," Sonic hissed, stepping up to the cottontail. "And they give me pleasure. They give me _ecstasy_, Asher. Nothing exciting ever comes without a price tag."

"Did you ever figure out _why _your emerald only works for you?" Fionnghal asked.

Sonic shook his head:

"Not really. I first learned that my Chaos Emerald has the power it does when..." he briefly looked at Fionnghal, but then averted his eyes. "Well, it was really soon after I pulled it out of the rubble from the Master Emerald explosion. I took it Doc JP to see if he could make anything out of it, but he didn't have too many answers, either."

"You mean James Prower?" Asher said. "Omega Tribe's head of R 'n D? Guy's a born polymath. I've heard that he knows everything about everything."

"Not everything, but just _enough_ about everything..."

"Even _he_ didn't have a clue?"

"Oh, he had lots of theories," Sonic said. "One is that my Chaos Emerald is alive and aware, and it only responds to me because it wants to."

Asher and Fionnghal were staring off in different directions, thinking. At these words they both looked up at Sonic, slowly furrowing their brows.

"Admittedly, that one was pretty far down on the list," Sonic mumbled. "He honestly didn't know. Said it had to be something about me, in particular, but he didn't know what. He called me an 'agent of chaos'. His best theory was that, since I was the first person to _find _the emerald, and I was the first person to touch it, well, that is the reason it only responds to me."

"First come, first serve?" Fionnghal said. "That seems like an arbitrary way for a magical piece of glowing rock to grant its freaky, random powers..."

Sonic shrugged:

"It's a hypothesis, not an answer. Doc JP didn't even believe me when I told him about the emerald's power, until he scanned me while I was using it. His sensors picked up energy coming _off _the Chaos Emerald. 'Pure' quantum energy, he called it. It wasn't a lot, but it was something. And anyway, it was the first time he'd ever seen a Chaos Emerald _emit _energy, rather than absorbing it. Bottom line is: we don't really know a damn thing about the Chaos Emeralds, but I _can _tell you that they're unpredictable, unbelievably powerful, and unspeakably dangerous."

"We're still assuming the Delts were actually mining a Chaos Emerald. It _looks _that way, but isn't it possible they were after something else?"

"Not a chance."

"How are you so sure?"

"Did you ever go to the fairgrounds back in Sulumac'Dun?" Sonic asked. "Now that I think about it, almost all my time spent with you guys back then was exploring in the Mischief. Or sneaking cakes out of the royal bakery. But did either of you ever make it to the fairgrounds?"

"What in the world makes that relevant?"

"Just tell me: did you?"

Fionnghal sighed:

"No. I was usually, uh, on a mission whenever they came into town. Anyway, the matrons in our crèche didn't really approve of the fairs..."

Sonic shook his head:

"You were deprived as a juvie, Pew."

"What's your point?"

"What about you, Ash?" Sonic asked.

Asher shrugged:

"I remember getting to _tour _the fairgrounds with my father. But my minders told me that riding any of the rides would've been 'unseemly' for a young prince." The cottontail crossed his arms and looked out over the horizon, scowling. "And then we'd go to the freakin' _opera_ for the rest of the afternoon..."

"Humph. Both of you guys had it rough—"

"Little princes and assassins don't get the luxury of a full childhood," Fionnghal quipped. "And, again: _your point_?"

"I liked riding the Ferris wheel," Sonic said. "It was nice and easy, and it gave you a great view of the city. One of the rides I _didn't _like so much was the tilt-a-whirl. It went too fast, and the movement of all the cars was unpredictable. Know why?"

Asher stared at his boots for a few seconds. He suddenly nodded:

"Because a tilt-a-whirl relies on _chaotic_ motion."

Fionnghal blinked, wagging her head back and forth.

"So, wait: Operation _Tilt-a-Whirl_? You gotta be kidding me..."

"Delta Tribe _does _have a sense of humor," Sonic said. "Don't they?"

"Wordplay like that is not a sense of humor," Fionnghal scowled, "it's a war crime."

Asher went back to work on the computer with renewed earnest. Soon he made another discovery:

"There's a text file that was sent directly to the Dolamiram about thirty hours after the last video we saw: it says that their initial reports were erroneous, that the 'objective' was _not _where they thought it was, they had no idea where it might be, if _anywhere _in the cavern, and that a dangerous natural gas leak from a fissure in the mountain killed several of the diggers and rendered the entire cavern unsafe for exploration. The fissure also made the LZ outside unstable for any landing aircraft."

"That was all rather abrupt," Fionnghal noted.

"And a pretty obvious lie," Sonic muttered. "Even without knowing how the rest of the research team died. It wouldn't have fooled Eggman..."

"It probably didn't," Asher said. "But that text message was sent over a _general _channel. Anyone in the broadcast range could have picked it up."

Fionnghal's eyes widened:

"Including Upsilon Tribe," she said. "Damn cats! They were never after any mysterious 'signal' after all. They intercepted that transmission and darn-well knew that someone was fooling around on top of their mountain."

"Eggman wouldn't have been able to send in any kind of investigative team," Asher said. "He wouldn't risk having the kitties find out about his involvement in the operation. It would've meant war with Upsilon Tribe. He's bold, but not even Eggman would risk getting into a fight with the cats."

"It would be 'distracting' for him," Sonic said.

"Also, whoever sent that text file saved it to a different folder from where the rest of the communications were kept," Asher said. He looked back at his colleagues: "And there are some other videos here, too..."

Sonic crossed his arms, leaning down near the cottontail's head:

"Play them," he said.

The next video opened on the boulder sitting on the exam table. The chamber around it was empty and quiet, and only one light bulb shone on the rock. The gecko leaned down on the table, his metal-studded face coming into view. The lenses in his eye cylinders seemed to burn against the harsh light of the bulb.

"'Iron Eyes', here," he whispered. "Communication number 23, day 12." He slowly ran a hand along the rock, looking at the camera with a cold expression. "Couldn't sleep, tonight," he said. "It isn't the headaches anymore. Those... those seem to have stopped... for now, at least." The gecko looked at the rock, staring at it for nearly a minute before speaking again:

"I ask the others: 'can't you feel it'? I ask them: 'can't you _hear_ it, almost like it's calling out to us'? Do you know what they tell me? Can you believe they tell me that they _don't _hear it?" He looked at the camera. "Can... can _I _believe... when they tell me that they _don't_?" He chuckled, his face contorting with an unsettling tension. "They tell me... that they don't."

Suddenly he looked up, scratching at his leathery jaw.

"What was I gonna do, today? Was I gonna... do something? Call... someone?" He waved a dismissive hand, scowling. "Mmm. They...they tell me...they don't hear it..."

He looked directly at the camera:

"How can that _not_...be a lie?"

His leathery face scrunched with contempt, and then static blazed across the screen. Instantly the next video segment played: it was a close-up of the boulder, this time split along one side. As the camera zoomed an unfamiliar voice behind the camera narrated:

"Communication number 24, day 13: we've _got it_!"

Gloved hands moved a long set of tongs within the rock. Suddenly the tongs popped out, and they bore a large chunk of emerald. It glistened with a dull, ghostly green luster. The harsh floodlights of the room bounced off its surface like sunrays on the seawater.

The camera panned out to reveal Iron Eyes holding the tongs. All around him other members of the excavation crew erupted into cheers and high-fives. Somewhere the cork on a bottle of sparkling wine popped off. Everyone was ecstatic, and everyone was grinning from ear to ear.

Except for Iron Eyes.

The cameraman set the camera down on a table as everyone moved off into the background, filling their mugs with the sparkling wine and breaking out a fresh bag of rations. Iron Eyes stayed in the camera frame, staring down at the stone. He slowly brought the thing up to his face, turning it over and over. His fist began to tremble, as if he were holding the stone with all his strength.

Suddenly the gecko leaned forward, grabbing his head with his free hand. He gripped one of his metal eye cylinders tight, wincing in pain.

That terrible bass noise began trembling between Sonic's ears. Again the hedgehog looked to Fionnghal and Asher, but it appeared they could hear nothing.

Static filled the screen, and the next video played: Iron Eyes paced frantically before the camera. The dull green Chaos Emerald sat on the table behind him. The room was very dark, lit by only one small bulb. The gecko hissed his words in a quiet, manic whisper:

"Communication... uh... communication..." the gecko shook his head back and forth, gripping the metal band around his head. "31 No, 32, is it? I think it is, yeah. Number 32. Day 16. Just one more thing, one more before I sleep... I promise..." He motioned down one of the corridors behind him. "I, um, I hear them whispering in the dark, behind my back, when they think I can't hear. I hear them... _think_, where they think I can't hear. I hear..." Again he gripped his head, squealing with a high-pitch whine. "I can hear _everything_!" He slowly looked down at the camera. Yellow gunk dribbled freely out one of his eye cylinders. "I can hear them laughing at me, at the fact that... that _this _will be gone when we're picked up." He motioned to the Chaos Emerald on the table. "This will go over to the Eggman. And then _I _think. I think: 'what has hedone to deserve it'? What _haven't _I done to deserve it, hmm? Oh, I can hear them in the dark, and they think that I can't." He approached the camera, putting his face right up against the lens.

"_They're wrong_!" He growled.

More static blazed across the screen.

"There's one more video," Asher said. "It was taken seven hours later."

Fionnghal coughed uncomfortably:

"I'm guessing that's gonna be the one where he completely turns into a demented cartoon character, right?"

"We're all on the same page here, aren't we?" Asher asked. "About this gecko?"

Sonic nodded:

"This emerald warps metal. Poor lizard's got more than enough of it buried inside his head."

"And Thadesch talked about that lion with the pacemaker; how the emerald's influence cut his pacemaker into ribbons and sliced his heart apart..."

Fionnghal shuddered:

"Damn thing is making plum pudding out of everything behind the gecko's eye cylinders. And those cylinders must be set in deep. They're probably sitting right in front of his prefrontal cortex. Even if that metal is just barely forced out of alignment— just one itty-bitty little centimeter— it would probably...well..."

"Lobotomize him," Sonic said. "Yup." He leaned down over the back of Asher's chair and flicked one of the cottontail's bony horns. Asher glared up at him, but Sonic merely stared off into the distance, deep in thought. "No mysteries there. That just leaves two very big questions: where have I seen this gecko before, and what caused this Chaos Emerald to become active?"

"We've still got the last video," Asher said. "Hopefully we'll get something out of it."

Asher played it: the camera lay on the ground. Very far away, near the wall of the main chamber, the shadow of Iron Eyes sat upright, legs crossed, hands on his lap. The Chaos Emerald rested in one of his hands, and that hand trembled as if it were choking the life out of the rock. The gecko's lips moved at regular intervals; he repeated two words, but they were inaudible.

The video rolled like this for nearly five minutes. Asher had to fast-forward until he noticed a change: a light came on from one of the deeper corridors. One of the other members of the research team— a warthog— sauntered into the room. He was busily buckling up his gear: a thick metal belt, construction helmet and shoes. He yawed lazily and nodded at Iron Eyes.

"Mornin', boss," he said. "We got any coffee on, yet?"

The gecko took a moment to respond. He slowly craned his head up at the warthog. He didn't appear to be looking at him, but almost _through _him.

"No," Iron Eyes whispered.

The warthog nodded:

"Ah, that's fine. I can make some up." The warthog slowly walked past the gecko, paused, and then faced him once again:

"Uh, listen, boss. Some of the fellas are wondering— just curious, I mean: it's been so many days since we extracted the Chaos Emerald, and don't you think it's kinda weird that we haven't gotten any acknowledgement from Genocide City? I mean, maybe Eggman himself is too busy to send a transmission, but you'd think that _someone _would call us up to let us know they're coming. And that's another thing..." the warthog leaned against the wall, scratching his scraggily head. "You let them know we got our hands on the thing as soon as we did, and like I said, that was so manydaysago. I can't rightly imagine why it's taken so long for them to arrange our extraction..."

A long pause hovered between them. Iron Eyes slowly looked up at the warthog.

"Do you... maybe have any idea why there's been a delay, sir?"

The gecko again looked straight forward, his expression vacant. He shook his head.

The warthog sighed. He knelt down beside Iron Eyes:

"I... uh, was hoping you wouldn't say that, boss. See, I checked on the logs, just to be sure that everything was on the up and up..."

The gecko suddenly looked up at him. The room's floodlights blazed against his cylindrical eyes.

"You... you what?" He whispered.

"You've been a little distracted the past few days; I was tryin' to help. But that's when I found out that you never sent those other messages to our superiors. They haven't been getting our reports for a while, now. And when I checked on our transmitter, I found that some of the wires had been cut..."

Iron Eyes stared forward again; his face bore all the countenance of a corpse.

"My question, boss, is this: did, uh, you get any orders in from Genocide City that we don't know about? Are they... did they _order _you to do any of this. Maybe have us lay low, awhile, or something?"

Iron Eyes' face didn't change.

"Boss? What about it, boss?"

The gecko whispered something.

"Boss?"

"No orders," the gecko slowly repeated, shaking his head. "No..."

"Okay, boss. I see..."

The warthog leaned beside Iron Eyes. Most of his back was to the camera, and his left hand was visible as it slowly slid behind his back. The fingers rested on the butt of a handgun tucked away in the back of his pants.

"So, um, why are we not talking to our superiors, boss? What's going on, exactly?"

Iron Eyes whispered something else.

The warthog edged the handgun out of his pants:

"What, boss?"

"I'm not talking... not at all," the gecko whispered.

His head suddenly came up; frothy saliva glistened along the rim of his mouth. He was smiling, but not in a normal way. His thin lips were pressed into the most unnatural of positions, as if his face had been flattened by a steamroller and his corpse was stuck with a mocking imitation of a grin.

"I'm listening," Iron Eyes cooed.

The warthog inched his handgun closer to his side:

"Listening, boss? To who?"

Iron Eyes smiled; suddenly he leapt to his feet. The warthog took a step back and pointed his handgun at the gecko. The gecko, however, only held up the Chaos Emerald in his hand, never losing that creepy little steamrolled smile.

"Would... would you like to listen, too?"

"Boss, what is the _matter _with you?" The warthog snarled.

Iron Eyes perched his lips:

"Oh... nothing," he said. "Nothing's the matter with me. You see, I don't just listen; I can _hear_!"

The lens flare nearly blinded everyone watching the video. With one fell swoop the Chaos Emerald in the gecko's hands exploded into a nova of light. Sonic's eardrums throbbed painfully; he felt like they might burst. The warthog on the screen suddenly screamed, his arms and legs bending about unnaturally. His body rose up off the ground and hovered in mid-air for a half a second, and then it went careening straight across the cavern, sailed over the camera, and then slammed into the far wall with a sickening thud.

Iron Eyes slowly walked over to the camera. He was grinning ear-to-ear, and a train of yellow gunk oozed from his face. He looked down at the camera, his grin widening:

"What haven't I done to deserve this?" He held up the Chaos Emerald.

Sounds rose from the deeper corridors of the compound: the rest of the team was quickly awakening to the noise in the main chamber.

"What _won't _I do, for this?" Iron Eyes asked the camera, again holding the emerald so tightly that his fist trembled. Suddenly the gecko looked back at those corridors, noticing for the first time the rising sounds of life. He began walking off in that direction, his grin spreading. He paused at a nearby table; a shotgun rested on it, and he took it up in his free hand. He held the emerald out in front of him as he walked into the rear corridors:

"I... am... listening..." he cooed.

The video cut to static, and then a cold, black screen. It reflected the faces of three very disturbed animals. Sonic, Asher and Fionnghal spent a moment just staring at their reflections. Asher finally spoke:

"Well... there _is _good news..."

"What would that be, exactly?" Fionnghal asked.

"Looks like Delta Tribe never got their hands on that emerald."

"Sure," Fionnghal grumbled. "Instead we've got a lobotomized killer gecko wandering around with an insanely powerful artifact of doom at his beck and call. Just lovely."

"He was an agent," Sonic muttered.

Asher looked back at Sonic:

"Huh?"

"The gecko was an 'agent of chaos'," Sonic said. "Just like me. How is that possible? And _why_..."

"Due respect, Sonic, and I'll try to bow to your 'expertise', but you said yourself we have no idea how the Chaos Emeralds work. This one might react for anyone."

"No," Sonic whispered, shaking his head. "If it did, then Omega Tribe would've discovered that fact when it was still a part of the Master Emerald. I'm not trying to act special, or anything, but this whole 'agent of chaos' thing is a rare phenomenon. _Incredibly _rare. Why in the hell was that gecko able to use that Chaos Emerald?"

"First come, first serve?" Fionnghal whispered.

Asher smiled:

"Stop it, Fi. You're making Sonic look a little less special." He rose out of the chair and scratched one of his horns. "Anyway, that's the least of all the questions we need to answer right now, isn't it? There are two much bigger questions at play."

Sonic cocked his brow:

"I can think of one," he said: "'where have I seen that gecko before'? I swear he looks familiar. He really does. Other than that..."

"You're ignoring the bigger question," Asher said.

"Where is that gecko, now?" Fionnghal said.

Asher paced back and forth in front of the console, clucking his tongue:

"The emerald was causing problems all the way down at the base of the mountain. That means the gecko fled from the summit, and he's hiding out somewhere down there. Alternatively, it means that his Chaos Emerald's powers are so great that it can mess things up from an incredible distance."

Sonic stared down at the console, brow furrowed. He was about to offer his own opinion.

And then every drop of blood froze in his veins.

His eyes locked onto the back of the chair; something slimy and gooey was glittering in the darkness. The hedgehog cautiously rested one hand on the chair, dabbing his gloved fingers in the gunk. When he held it closer to his face he was able to see the color.

It was a very familiar yellow hue.

Sonic turned around and locked eyes with Fionnghal. The rat's face bore that same cold urgency that his must have. She looked at the yellow gunk on his fingers with panic brimming over her blue eyes. Asher noticed his colleagues' silence and he locked eyes with them. Then he noticed the yellow gunk. That's when he made a terrible mistake. Maybe he couldn't help it.

But it was a mistake all the same.

Asher looked straight up at the ceiling, directly above the console, and he got a brief moment to contemplate the boot above his head before it crashed down right into the bridge of his nose.

Iron Eyes got Asher to the ground and socked him in the jaw. When the lizard stood up in the dark corridor Sonic got a glimpse of his frame. It was a terrible thing: the creature's body was viciously thin, with his sickly arms and legs dangling and swaying in sinewy abandoned, wobbling about like a set of knotted little ropes of muscle freed of any ounce of fat, or even bone.

Sonic stumbled backward; his chest seemed to contort, as if his ribs were twisting themselves apart. He felt panic, for certain, but he felt nothing from his emerald. Fionnghal leapt to Asher's aid. The rat took _Curtainrod _off its plastic belt and lunged for the gecko. Sonic held out a hand to stop her:

"Pew! _No_!"

The gecko dodged the first strike, and then he attacked her with his left fist. Brilliant yellow light exploded from the emerald he held there.

"_Gah_!"

Fionnghal shrieked in pain. She grabbed the hilt of her sword with her free hand, wresting with the rapidly-deforming handle. The rat forced her knuckles out of the grip, ripping out a good deal of fur and flesh in the bargain. The pain disoriented her so much that she was unable to block the gecko's boot from landing in her face. When she landed hard on her back the gecko was right on top of her, holding his jagged emerald like a broken bottle, ready to bury the sharp edges into the rat's throat.

Sonic crashed into the gecko, kicking him square in the chest and sending him reeling backward. The hedgehog positioned himself between the gecko and the rat, braced at the ready. The emerald around his neck was an invisible chunk of rock in the darkness; it bore no color at all.

The gecko leapt to his feet. His manic, wild eyes moved between his three opponents: Fionnghal was still on her back, Asher was getting to his feet, and Sonic was nearest to him.

That probably explains why he chose to attack the hedgehog.

Sonic leapt into the air, aiming a very elegant roundhouse kick at the gecko's head. But the gecko got his hand up first, and that emerald in his hand burned with vicious yellow hellfire. Before his foot could connect Sonic was tossed across the cavern like a rag doll; his body tumbled across the hard rock floor and he came to a rest on his back.

And he screamed.

He screamed so loud that he might've passed out, if he'd thought about it. He wasn't thinking about that. He couldn't think about _anything_, other than the blinding, searing pain in his legs.

In what was left of his legs.

Fionnghal got to her knees, wagging her head. She was just in time to see the gecko's nightmarishly emaciated body lumbering for the cavern exit. She snarled and took one step after him, but then Sonic's screams brought her to a halt. She raced to him, only to find the hedgehog balled on his side, rocking around uncontrollably, still screaming at the top of his lungs.

When she finally managed to 'un-ball' his body her blue eyes widened into dinner plates.

Asher was already running after the gecko; Fionnghal screamed at him, her voice nothing more than a panicked, disorganized trilling of rat lowspeak. It took a moment for her to speak clearly:

"Forget that bastard!" She screamed. "Call down to Fringe, _now_! Code red!"

Seconds later Sonic got a reprieve from all the pain and the screams. He blacked out, slipping into a merciful pool of cold, dull emptiness.

And when he dreamed he dreamed of emerald stones glowing in the darkness, beaming over a mouthful of jagged teeth leering at him from the fringes of the light. It was grinning, and the teeth were snapping, salivating, coming right for him. And he couldn't move. Couldn't move. Couldn't...


	24. Rosettes

"Rosettes"

I.

Quinn sat cross-legged before the small fire pit, absently surveying his leopard-spotted arms. Lynxia stood before a makeshift shelf, busily screwing the caps on her vials of paint. She perched them on off-center wooden slats. The clumsy shelves fit right in with the dilapidated nature of the rest of the abode. The young cheetah's home was a single undivided room, with the walls on each side hewn of that same oppressive brickwork that dominated the rest of Ubasti. The dingy brickwork was covered up with at least some kind of attractive façade in other places around the city— marble tiles, decorative frescoes— but in Lynxia's neighborhood that basic aesthetic touch was almost entirely absent. At least Lynxia's cold brick walls were painted, and the color was a rather pleasant yellow, albeit faded and cracked. Outside the night was moonless, and the darkness impenetrable.

"Can I ask you a question?" Quinn said.

"I've got you all painted up like a snow leopard, and you've only got one question?"

"To _start_, maybe..."

The cheetah girl looked back at him; she nodded.

"Why'd you call the fight? You were doing pretty good..."

Lynxia sat back down across from the boy, knees curled up to her chest. She shook her head while holding up one paw, absently exposing her blunt claws.

"I had to switch to my claws," she said, "so I lost." She quickly looked up at the boy, green eyes stern. "_Technically_."

Quinn nodded, gingerly touching the small gash on his forehead.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled. "It was the only way to get you off of me. Your knee was digging right into my—"

"I remember," Quinn mumbled.

"You know, you fight pretty good for a human."

Quinn looked down at his painted fist, clenching and unclenching it.

"I didn't really know I had it in me," he said. The boy looked up, hazel eyes shining in the firelight: "Listen, I'm sorry that I hit you like that. I shouldn't have."

"I _was _raggin' on you pretty hard..."

"Still... I mean... you're, uh, you know... you're a girl—"

Those two little fangs peeked out over the cheetah's lip. Lynxia held her legs tight, brilliant green eyes burning:

"I'm a _Kurteni_," she declared. "I can take a little punishment."

"You can give it, too," Quinn again rubbed his forehead.

The girl stared down at her feet:

"Yeah. Again: sorry about that."

A loud snort startled the youths; Katchy sat under the doorframe, his body half-buried in the disheveled drop cloth covering the door. The raccoon dog rolled onto his other side, muttering, and he fell into a deeper sleep.

"Your tribe lets dogs in, huh?" Lynxia said. "Our elders always tell us that dogs aren't to be trusted, too much." She briefly locked eyes with Quinn. "'Course, they _also _tell us that humans are all scrawny weaklings, so..." Lynxia shook her head. "I hope that _all _of the humans on your ship aren't as good in a fight as you are; Mobius might be in trouble..."

Quinn caught a lump in his throat.

"The others..."

"Is everyone else from your ship staying in the Thallomoor, too?"

"Uh..." the boy stared at the fire. He shook his head: "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Of course they are..." Quinn quickly looked up and motioned to the sleeping raccoon dog with his head: "About the dogs: well, Katchy's alright," Quinn said. "Both he and his sister do really good work for Mister Asher, and Miss Fionnghal."

"If you say so," Lynxia mumbled. "By the way: what do your parents think of you running around with Theta Tribe like this?"

"Haven't heard 'em complain, yet," he mumbled. The boy suddenly looked up: "Oh! Um, are _your_ parents gonna be okay with this?" Quinn motioned to his body. "I mean, most animals on Mobius aren't really that happy to find a human in their homes, I think. Doubt they'd be happy with their daughter bringing one home..."

"My—" the girl coughed, scratching at one ear. "Uh, yeah, no: that's not a problem. Nope. They, uh, won't be home for hours. They have a late shift in the steelworks, see, and it's on the other side of the city. So..."

Lynxia stared down at the cracked brick floor beside Quinn; the boy's slingshot lay on its side, and she surveyed it carefully with those giant, sparkling emerald eyes.

Her eyes were _really _sparkly. It helped that they were way too big for her body, Quinn thought.

"That's a funny-looking slingshot," she noted.

Quinn picked up the weapon and turned it over in his hands:

"Yeah," he said.

"Can I see it?"

The boy looked up at the cheetah girl. Despite his best effort, his eyes must've betrayed his hesitation.

"I'm not gonna steal it," she scoffed. "I'm no thief!"

"I'm not afraid of _that_—"

"You're lying."

Quinn narrowed his eyes. He reached across the sickly fire and handed his weapon to the girl.

"Don't try to use it," he said. "It's got a—"

"Quantum Effects Discriminator, right?" The cheetah held the slingshot up to the fire, admiring the small swirling orb set into the junction of the metal prong. She put her eye to it, and from Quinn's perspective that eye became even more cartoonishly large, magnified by the glassy orb.

_ "This is your__weapon?" She asked._

_ "Yeah. It's called '__Majh'nglas__'." _

_Lynxia looked up at him, face scrunched._

_ "That's wolf lowspeak," Quinn explained. "It means 'voice of the cub'. The leader of the wolves kinda helped me name it..."_

_ "You're making that up," she said._

_ Quinn shook his head, disinterestedly staring down into the fire._

_ "No. Not really. I kinda run with a very tough crowd..."_

_ "Well, then why is your name __sloth__?" She asked._

_"My real name isn't. But it sounds a little like it. It means 'fearless'."_

_ "Your real name?"_

_ He shook his head. _

_"No. My s__loth __name." He tilted his head, blinking. "I don't... uh, I don't really know what my __real__ name means."_

_ "'Lynxia' means 'fire-eyed'," the girl lifted her head proudly. "No surprise; it's my most obvious feature. You probably already noticed that, though."_

_ Quinn perched his lips:_

_ "Uh... not really..."_

_ The girl scowled, again showing off those two little fangs._

_"I can't believe you don't know what your own name means. Everyone should know what their own name means."_

_ "I don't know if my real name means __anything__." Quinn rested on his side, careful not to put too much weight on his bruised arm. "Besides, I don't really think my real name actually has any meaning on Mobius anyway, does it? '__Qui'ntroshe__'_does. That's a name that matters. Or at least it has a meaning..." the boy played with a tuft of weed poking out the uneven brick floor.

For a moment he lost himself to that thought: who was 'Quinn', anyway? One thing was certain: _he_ didn't know. The boy in front of the fire didn't. Whatever he was before he was thawed on this planet— whoever he was— might never have existed, and it would've meant the same thing to him. Who was 'Quinn', anyway? Who's to say that the person he was before the _Runner _crash had anything to do with who he was, now? What should he care about what he _may _have been, if it was now as alien to him as that squeaky language of Fionnghal's?

So, there was a logical consequent: what should he care about any of the people who may have been in that wreckage— who may have died— if he couldn't remember a thing about them? What he actually _was_ today— what he saw with his own eyes, and what experienced firsthand—had to be more important than a past he couldn't even remember. Should he _really _just take it on faith that the person who emerged from that cryotube last month was the same boy that was jammed in there in the first place?

Quinn shook his head: he didn't have an ounce of faith in that thought. He couldn't. Because he wasn't that boy. Not anymore. He was _Qui'ntroshe_. The boy that was put into that cryotube on the _Runner _died in the wreckage along with everyone else. He was different from that other boy: different in regard to the people that may have loved him, and different in regard to the people that may have disliked him. And different in regard to _everyone else_ in between. Of course he was.

One-hundred percent.

So, you see, he didn't have to care about _anyone _else on that ship.

_Q.E.D_.

"What does 'Kurteni' mean in cat lowspeak?" Quinn whispered.

"'Of the false ones'," Lynxia answered.

"What's 'false' about you, exactly?"

"The Kurteni clan was the first clan to leave the Frostblessor, back when the world was young," she explained. "Back when all the cats lived up there—"

"When you were allsnow leopards." Quinn tapped one of the rosettes painted on his chest. "But I thought _all _the cats left the mountain, not just one clan..."

"Like I said: the Kurteni were the first. And they incited the wrath of the gods. As punishment all the Kurteni had to watch while the other cats got turned into all the different species."

Quinn blinked, looking up at the girl:

"I...uh, hate to break it to you, but it looks like you Kurteni guys got transformed too. I mean, you _are _a cheetah, Lynxia—"

"It's only skin-deep," she interrupted. "_Fur_-deep, even. The Kurteni may have been outwardly changed, but we weren't changed like all the others. We all have a real, honest-to-the-Gods snow leopard hidden beneath our fur." She motioned to her body, starting at her hips and ending at her shoulders. "Our temple vicar calls this external body an 'accident'."

"Sounds like the gods were being pretty _deliberate_—"

"We all looklike cheetahs, but it's a false front. We're not cheetahs the same way an Acinó is, or the way that a jaguar guard is a jaguar, or the way a tigress like Lady Pascale is a tigress. Truth is, we're the closest thing left to a snow leopard there is."

"Because the gods cursed you?"

"_Reminded _us," she hissed. "The Kurteni are special; we're the ones who'll have to reunify the species, someday. It's our birthright, and it's our responsibility. We don't forget that. Not that the other species would make it easy for us to forget, even if we wanted..."

"You gonna try to climb the Frostblessor someday? I've heard that others have done it, and none of them have turned back into—"

"They didn't believe. Their faith wasn't strong enough."

"Yours is?"

The girl looked off to one side. She shrugged:

"I don't know," she admitted.

"I'd find out before I tried to climb the damn thing."

"That's the thing about faith, I guess," she answered. "You gotta leap before you look. It can be kinda scary to think about, don't you think?"

Quinn shook his head:

"No, I don't. I'm _Qui'ntroshe_, remember?"

"I was taught that being brave and being frightened are two different things."

Quinn scowled at the girl. It must've been a really dirty scowl, too, because Lynxia noticed it almost immediately. It alarmed her at first, but then she set her face into a cute little sneer:

"Do you wanna go again?" She held up one paw, brandishing her claws.

Quinn let the scowl fade from his face. He shook his head:

"No," he muttered.

"Good." the cheetah lay down on her back, grunting as her bruised side met the bricks. "I don't either."

"So, then your name is Linxia... Kurteni..." Quinn held up two fingers, and then added a third one, wiggling it about. "What's your other name?"

"My _other _name?"

Quinn nodded:

"Yeah. It's a fact that a cat must have three different names. That's what I've heard, anyway."

"Is that right?"

The boy nodded.

Lynxia's eyes narrowed. She growled at him:

"Well, did you 'hear' that a cat doesn't just give out their third name? And it's rude to ask, too!"

"Why?"

"Because!" The cheetah shook her head and growled again. "Our third names are...well, they're _intimate_, you know? There's a lot of pride in keeping a third name secret, and only telling it to a select few. A cat who goes around just blabbing their third name to everyone is a cat without honor!"

"Oh," Quinn again stared down at the uneven floor. "We've got a cat in Theta Tribe. Her name is Spindletop. I wonder if—"

"_Spindletop_?" Lynxia got to her haunches, sneering. "You're kidding. That's a _third name_!"

"You sure?"

The girl nodded.

"Of course it is. They're like... I dunno, _pet _names, given out by families at birth, usually. Cats get a proper name, like 'Lynxia' or 'Pascale', and then they get their clan name, like 'Kurteni'. But the third name's informal. It can be anything, but it's usually something about how a newborn looks, or acts. A lot of times it's like teasing, you know? Playful teasing, usually..."

Quinn nodded:

"Spindletop _does _have a bad cowlick on her head..."

"I can't believe she lets everyone know her third name like that! What's her proper name? And what's her clan? Betcha _anything _she's not a Kurteni. Not even an Acinó would behave so disgracefully!"

"I don't know her other names; I don't think she's told anyone from our tribe." He looked to one side. "Fionnghal mightknow..."

"She hides her proper name _and _her clan name?" Lynxia shook her head and scoffed. "That's ridiculous! Your cat has no honor, or pride! That's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard—"

Now it was Quinn's turn to growl at Lynxia. He didn't do it right, and the sound was hardly threatening— more like a busted garbage disposal trying to grind a mess of wet paper— but it was so unexpected that the cheetah girl's tongue froze in her throat.

"Spindletop is a friend of mine," he said. "And I don't care what you think about her 'honor' or her 'pride': you don't get to badmouth my friends like that, Lynxia. Not in front of me, understand?"

"It's the truth, that's all." The girl got to her knees. "I'm not being mean about it _just_ so I can be mean."

"I don't care!" Quinn got to his own knees. He leaned across the pit, nearly touching noses with the girl. "Now lay off her!"

Lynxia growled, and she did it right.

The juveniles locked eyes, glaring at each other coldly. Eventually the cheetah slowly lowered herself back onto the ground; she absently cradled her bruised side. Quinn sat down too, subconsciously brushing his hair away from that gash on his forehead.

"Sorry," Lynxia muttered as she sprawled out on her back. "It's just how us cats work. I didn't mean to offend you. You being human, well, you don't know how we do things down here. _We _don't know how _you _do things. Guess it's a mess all around..."

Quinn let a long pause wind its way through the room. Eventually he spoke:

"You'd never seen a human, Lynxia? Before me, I mean."

Lynxia had one paw over her eyes. She shook her head:

"Nah. The Eggman's people dealt mostly with a settlement up north, in a place called 'Oğluabubus'."

"Stars with an 'O', huh? That'd be _Omega _Tribe," Quinn nodded.

"Mmm-hmm. It isn't around anymore, of course. Those humans in Eggman's crew were a bunch of murderous ingrates. Real thugs, you know?"

Quinn opened his eyes and looked across the fire at the girl. He arched his brow:

"No offense taken—"

"I'm not talking about _you_. Eggman's people."

"How were they 'ingrates', exactly?"

Lynxia sat up:

"You haven't heard that part, huh? About the virus? How all the humans got _really_ sick?"

Quinn blinked in confusion; Lynxia took it as a cue to explain:

"In hindsight it's obvious," she said. "You get some alien species that sets down on an unfamiliar planet, and what do you expect to happen? We've got viruses and bacteria an' all that kind of stuff on our planet, same as any other planet on the Rainbow, and _we're _adapted to it. I mean, we live here, you know? Humans didn't. They caught this bug— some really common thing, like a Mobian cold, I dunno— and it really did a number on 'em. The real kicker is that this cold bug got all mutated inside _their_ bodies and whatever, and then it comes straight backto _us_. Some of us, I mean. Case in point: it managed to infect all the wolves. Can you believe that?"

"The wolves?" Quinn tilted his head.

"Yeah. Ever wonder why they wear those masks on their faces?"

"What do they look like under those things, anyway?"

The cheetah girl shrugged:

"Dunno. I've heard stories. Oooh!" The girl's shoulders quivered. "I'd love to get a peek, though. For curiosity, if nothing else. You know, it's really terrible to say..." the girl looked back at Katchy, who was still snoring loudly in the doorway. When she faced Quinn she leaned close to the fire and whispered: "I mean, it's almost fitting: I've heard that the wolves were the ones who were really pushing the humans' case. They were trying their hardest to roll out the welcome mat for 'em. Well, when things got bad, and the humans started getting sick, we all saw their true colors."

"That's when they started fighting for _real_, huh? I wonder why Fionnghal never told me that part... "

"That Eggman guy: as soon as he got put in charge he started bombing the ever-loving hell out of Omega Tribe. He used up most of his ship's ordinance on the tribe's council chambers."

"Decapitated them, huh?"

Lynxia looked up at the boy; her lips curled into a playful smile.

"'Decapitated'. _That's _the word. Nice!"

"But..." Quinn stared down at his body. "If there's a virus, then what about _me_?"

Lynxia waved a paw:

"No, no: that's just it. Omega Tribe found the _cure_ for that virus. They had this scientist working for them around the clock to find a cure, some kind of genius fox doctor. They were willing to give it to the humans for free. For _free_! Can you imagine? But no: that guy— Eggman— he gets put in charge, and he goes totally _psycho_ on everything. There's no dealing with him! Nah: Omega Tribe offered their cure to the humans, but Eggman didn't give one lick. He wanted a fight, and so he got it."

Quinn blinked; he looked at the girl with curled lips:

"They all got sick, huh? That's why there aren't any other humans left from Eggman's crew. 'Kay, but how did _Eggman _survive the virus?"

Lynxia shrugged, getting up to her haunches:

"Dunno. Some say that Eggman was just immune. You know: kinda like a freak, or something."

"I get the 'freak' part," Quinn shivered, shaking his head. "Y'know, I've never actually thought about it before, but what was his name before?. And why _is _he called 'Eggman', anyway?"

Lynxia again shrugged:

"Maybe it's a pet name. Y'know, like our third names. Guess he's trying to bury his real name. Who knows why? It's still a dishonorable and cowardly thing. Uh, that doesn't offend you, does it? For me to say _that_?"

Quinn shook his head:

"No. I'm not one of his biggest fans..."

"It was bad, when all that happened. Really, really bad." Lynxia curled her toes on the floor. "It made everyone afraid of humans. Our leaders always wondered what would happen if any more came over the Rainbow." She looked up at the boy, smirking mischievously. "But I didn't think any of 'em would be able to fight like a snow leopard."

"Is that why you painted me up?" Quinn turned his bare arms over, examining the intricate rosettes set against his silvery skin. "You're more comfortable sitting across the fire from a 'snow leopard', huh?"

"That's not it, exactly. You're still _really _ugly, you know..."

"Yeah, and you're just pretty as a rose."

"Why thank you!" The girl batted her lashes, smirking.

"You cats aren't much for sarcasm, are you?"

"Not really. We all have giant claws that pop right up out of our paws at any time. They're great for cutting down snarkers. The sarcastic among us don't really last that long..." Lynxia stared down at her claws. "But the body paint's just a symbol. Us Kurteni wear it, sometimes, just to remind us that we're all snow leopards on the inside. It doesn't mean anything other than that, really. We don't _need _the rosettes to remind us, but they still let everyone know that there's more to us than what they can see. That we're more _complicated_ than you might think, right?"

Quinn smirked:

"Well, a rosette _is _a more 'complicated' design, isn't it? More than cheetah spots, anyway. More than human skin, too."

"Mmm. That ugly pink sack of hairless flesh..."

Quinn glared at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Sorry," she shook her head, "but yeesh: talk about falling off the 'ugly' tree and hitting all the branches on the way down—"

"Yeah, thanks—"

"—getting beaten with an 'ugly' stick—"

"Uh-huh—"

"—then getting tied up in an 'ugly' sack and thrown into an 'ugly' river—"

"Getting a _little _offensive, now," Quinn bared his teeth.

Lynxia smirked:

"I always wondered what it'd be like to meet a human. Disliked the idea, for a long while..."

"And now?"

"Well, after meeting you, I guess..." the cheetah stretched, popping her neck. "I guess I don't... uh, _dislike_ humans. Not too much. Guess you're not all like Eggman and his crew."

"We come in different flavors," the boy said. "We're unique. Like snowflakes." He held up his arm, again turning it in the light. "Or rosettes..."

"Species can be more 'complicated' than you think, I guess..."

"But, y'know, after meeting _you_, I've got a pretty good idea about what all the Kurteni must be like. All the _females_, at least."

The girl's green eyes peeked up at him; she narrowed them, setting her brow in a pensive scrunch:

"Yeah? And what must they be like, exactly?"

He told her. He flashed a sarcastic smile when he told her.

But she was right: cats don't really do sarcasm.

She rolled him twice, until they came to a rest near the far wall, her on top. With one paw she pinned his neck, and with the other she brandished her claws menacingly, hovering them over a particularly vulnerable part of his anatomy.

"I, uh, thought you were done fighting," Quinn grunted.

"Not really," she said. "I'm good to go, again."

"_I'm not_!"

Suddenly the drop cloth covering the doorway parted. Fionnghal and Asher ducked into the room. They looked down at the juveniles on the floor with perched lips.

"I can explain this," Quinn said. He looked up at Linxia, and then back at the rat and cottontail. He sighed. "No. Never mind, I can't..."

"Get that little throw rug off you, juvie," Asher growled. "We're moving out." He looked down at Katchy, still snoring in the doorway, and he kicked his leg. Katchy yelped, stumbling to his feet. "We gotta be careful," Asher explained. "Pascale and the kitty council probably know what we were doing. We gotta get clear of kitty territory without tipping them off."

"Well, is everything else okay?" Quinn got to his feet. "Where's Sonic and Thadesch?"

"They uh... took the jeep back out of the plains; they're on their way back to the Thallomoor." Fionnghal cupped her paws over her nose, drawing a breath.

"Sonic's riding back? I thought he'd wanna run. I mean, he doesn't have to hang out with you guys anymore today, does he? I was actually hoping he could've given _me _a lift—"

"Well, he _can't_!" Fionnghal barked.

Quinn took a step back.

"Uh, okay. But how are we gonna get out of Uncia without a jeep?"

"Thadesch arranged for a vehicle to be waiting for us outside the city gates. We need to move _quickly_, got it?" Asher looked down at Lynxia, sneering. "And _quietly_. Is this one gonna be a problem for us?"

"Whaddya mean?" Quinn asked. "We're not running her through with Fionnghal's sword, if that's what you're talking about."

The cheetah girl looked at the rat and brandished her claws:

"I'd like to see her _try_..."

"Woah, hey," Quinn stepped between the ladies. He put a hand on Lynxia's shoulder. "Uh, really bad idea..."

"What I meant is: do we need to 'pacify' her for a little while?" Asher grumbled. "But thanks for having the confidence in me to think that I'd just casually have a juvenile murdered..."

"One:" Quinn held up a finger, "I don't like that choice of word—"

"The euphemism?" Katchy asked.

"No," Quinn shook his head. "Just the way Mister Asher said 'pacify'."

"Ah, of course," Katchy rolled his eyes.

"And two: Lynxia's fine. She doesn't care what we're doing here, and she won't rat us out."

Fionnghal, pacing pensively and staring at the floor, briefly looked up at the boy.

"Sorry," Quinn mumbled. "Figure of speech..."

"Forget it," Asher waved a paw. "We don't have time for this. Let's just get moving, _now_." Again he looked down at the cheetah girl, pointing at her sternly. "And if I learn that you sold us out to the kitty council I'll be coming back here to turn you into a _real _throw rug. Got it?"

Lynxia growled at him.

"Y'know, you've just got a certain way with the young'uns, don't you?" Katchy chuckled.

Asher shot the raccoon dog a withering stare.

"Uh... respectfully..."

The sound of grinding gears squealed all along the street outside. Light exploded from all directions, as if a small sun had just flashed into existence outside the door. Only the loud hum of electric motors betrayed the mundane source of that light. Shadows tromped all about, scurrying before that field of harsh white light; they were soldiers, all wearing combat helmets and carrying automatic rifles, their boots clomping loudly on the cobbled street.

Asher cursed. He exchanged glances with Fionnghal, who shook her head and let out a curse in her lowspeak.

A contingent of jaguars in battle fatigues marched into Lynxia's little domicile. Behind them were two more jaguars in more ornate dress— more like a modern-day suit of armor, complete with cruel-looking metal helmets. Quinn recognized them: that was the same armor the guards wore at the gate to the cats' council chambers. Behind them was another familiar face: Nix Acinó, Speedster of Upsilon Tribe, and he was escorting one last animal.

Pascale the tigress stepped through the room slowly, her iron boots beating a soft and measured cadence on the dirty floor. The black bands across her deep orange fur blended with the uneven light cast by the fire pit, making her face look like a moving shadow. Her confident yellow eyes beamed from narrow slits. She walked with her hands behind her back, head held high, broad shoulders militaristically squared.

"Well, if it isn't Theta Tribe," she said. Her voice lilted with urbane sophistication, but roiling beneath those words was a threatening undercurrent. It was melodic, Quinn thought, but he couldn't say he liked the melody. "You pick the oddest places to visit on your 'diplomatic' missions, don't you?" She looked down at Lynxia, who took a few steps back, cowering under the tigress's commanding presence. "What kind of 'diplomacy' could you possibly accomplish down here, in the humble slum house of some little Kurteni wretch..." She looked back at Fionnghal. "Or have we been engaged in _other _pursuits, today?"

"Like what, exactly?" Fionnghal crossed her arms.

Pascale sauntered up to Fionnghal, leering down at her. She had a good half-foot on the rat, and she used every inch to intimidate to a maximum degree.

"_Mountaineering_, maybe?" Pascale whispered.

"Can't say I'm into that," Fionnghal said. "It scuffs the fur..."

The tigress scowled at her. She looked around the room again, eyes scanning all, and then she looked to Asher:

"Prince Shope: where is the Speedster of the Thallomoor?"

"Gone, obviously. He comes and goes as he pleases, Lady Regent. We don't have any control over him. You should understand that."

"I see..." she moved to the cottontail's side. "Well, that may be. But let me inform you of something you may not understand, Asher. The cats control the _cats'_ territory."

"I never doubted it."

Pascale leaned closer to him; she bared a pair of unbelievable fangs. They were almost otherworldly, like they were from a museum display on saber-toothed cats.

"Didn't you? Well, we'll see about that, won't we?"

Pascale looked to Nix Acinó. She nodded to him, and then he stepped forward, making an announcement to the entire room in a booming voice:

"As of this time the delegation from Theta Tribe is _persona non grata _in the Uncia Plains. You will all surrender your weapons to these guards without delay, after which you will all be forcibly removed to the borderlands between Uncia and the Thallomoor. There you will be released, and your weapons returned to you."

Pascale sauntered to Fionnghal's side:

"After," she hissed, "a very thoroughsearch of each and every person in your party."

Fionnghal and Asher exchanged brief glances, giving each other a small nod. She gave _Curtainrod _over to the soldier nearest her, and Asher handed his sawn-off to Nix Acinó. Katchy gave up his long gun. Quinn started when he felt a paw grab him from behind; he spun around and fought with a leopard soldier trying to take the slingshot from his back pocket. Pascale took note, coming to the soldier's side. By then he'd wrestled the weapon from Quinn's body, and he held Quinn's arm tight while handing Pascale the weapon with his free paw.

"Interesting..." she turned the slingshot over in her hand, briefly looking down at Quinn's face before sauntering for the door.

The soldiers produced metal cuffs for the party, and they slapped Asher, Fionnghal and Katchy's wrists together in front of their bodies. When the soldier holding Quinn produced his own set of cuffs Fionnghal called out to the tigress:

"C'mon: he's just a juvenile. There's no need for that..."

Pascale looked back at Quinn. She tilted her head, considering the boy for a moment. Finally she looked up at the soldier and nodded, gesturing to him. Lynxia stood by Quinn's side, watching as the soldier slapped the cuffs on him. The boy smirked at her, winking:

"Told you that I ran with a rough crowd, didn't I?"

Everyone was led outside, where a giant metal behemoth idled in the street. It was a transport made of fierce-looking metal plates, with spike-studded wheels beneath. Massive steel barbs protruded from the vessel's front— probably for ramming— and they made the vehicle look more like a dislocated animal's jawbone than a proper means of transportation.

But Quinn had to give them this: it was scary as hell.

Fionnghal walked up to Pascale's side, looking at the tigress intently as she turned over Quinn's slingshot, examining its structure.

"Do not worry, rat. We cats are not _thieves_. More than I can say for some..."

Asher and Katchy were taken to the back of the vessel, and when Fionnghal took a step to join them she was stopped by Pascale:

"You'll be more comfortable up front, Fionnghal," she said, "sandwiched between my bodyguards. Or at least _I'll _be more comfortable with you there." She smirked. "I had a chance to read your dossier today, after your visit to the council chambers. You are a rare specimen, aren't you? Quite a history of violence there, hmm?"

The rat shrugged noncommittally. Pascale began walking off, but Fionnghal called out to her:

"You won't find anything on us, Lady Regent."

Pascale turned on her heels, glaring at her:

"Let me tell you something: did you know I used to command the regular military, my dear? I had an entire division under my command before I accepted the regency. Did you ever hear of our little problem, some years back? We had a rampant g'nepettah epidemic in the ranks. It was eating our army apart from the inside out."

Fionnghal nodded.

"Yeah. I remember."

"Well, it was an intractable thing, and the soldiers were out of their minds on the drug. They failed every duty imaginable, but they were downright ingenious in how they hid their stores of g'nepettah. They'd dilute it to a liquid and hide it inside an entire tank of water— thousands of gallons worth— waiting for the right time to redistill it. They'd solidify it into the most concentrated form imaginable— make it smaller than a mess of dust— just to hide in the most... unassuming of places. I declared war on it, and after a time I was successful. But that situation taught me, above all, the benefits of a very, _very _thorough search." Pascale looked off to one side, her eyes mercilessly triumphal. "I remember, towards the end of the epidemic, I assembled every single soldier in my battalion for a briefing. A bunk check in the barracks found a concentrated cache of g'nepettah, and it showed signs of being recently cut, and shared. But the shared amount was nowhere to be seen. The troops were awakened quickly; there wasn't time to properly hide any drugs one might be carrying. And it was such a small amount... in such a small vial. Well, I walked the rows, looking at the soldiers standing at attention— thousands of pairs of eyes, looking back at me, _thousands _of them— until I found the right pair, staring back at me. It was a lynx— young thing— a relatively new recruit, and in her eyes I saw everything I needed to know. Well, _almost _everything I needed to know."

Pascale circled Fionnghal, continuing her story without missing a beat:

"I took that poor girl up to the front of the lines, and I stood her up there in front of _everyone_, in front of those thousands of eyes, and..." Pascale stopped circling; she stood right in front of the rat. "Well, there are only so many hiding places on an animal body, you know."

The rat smirked:

"Maybe I know something about hiding places that _you _don't, Lady Regent. But seriously: is this any way to treat a diplomaticparty? That'd be a violation of the Code. Among other things..."

Pascale perched her lips, nodding.

"Mmm. Maybe you're right. Well, can't blame a girl for trying, hmm?"

She turned around, but again Fionnghal stopped her:

"Too easy," she muttered. "You knowdamn well that we don't have anything incriminating on us. You know that for a _fact_."

Pascale shrugged:

"I try to analyze a situation in the simplest way possible, Fionnghal. Maybe you're just adding too much _chaos_ to the equation."

Fionnghal's eyes widened; she looked up at Pascale.

"Yes, that's right," Pascale smirked. "Maybe we hit you all with an energy analyzer right before storming this home. Maybe we didn't find any anomalies, outside of your QED weapons. And maybe we sent a scout ship out to that jeep you've got careening away from Uncia at breakneck speed, and maybe we didn't find any anomalies there, either." Pascale looked down at the ground, and then back up at the rat. "Maybe we _did _see your... wounded party, rolling around in the back seat, in agony, and in a very...critical condition."

The rat's lips trembled:

"P— Pascale! You—"

The tigress held up a paw:

"We didn't interfere with the jeep," she said. "That _would _have violated the Code. And don't worry about us letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak. We won't be telling anyone that your 'ace in the hole' is down and out, for now. If anyone else in this region knew that _he _was out of commission it would stir up a hornet's nest, from here to the Dolamiram. For good or for ill, he's been quite a stabilizing influence in this part of Mobius these past few years. At the very least the _threat _of him getting involved in any territorial disputes has been."

The tigress moved off for the vehicle, turning back once:

"Do me this one courtesy, Fionnghal: tell me if it was the Chaos Emerald. Was _that _the thing responsible for his injuries?"

Fionnghal stared at her coldly for a moment. She nodded.

The tigress considered that nod for a moment, and then she shrugged, walking off.

"We never got ahold of it," Fionnghal said. "And it's on the move, even as we speak. I have no idea where. What will you do with this information, Lady Regent?"

Pascale again stopped.

"Nothing," she admitted. "Any device on this planet capable of bringing Sonic the hedgehog to his knees isn't worth the trouble to track down."

"That's wise," Fionnghal whispered.

"I almost lost an entire regiment to drug abuse, once. I won't lose the remainder of my forces hunting down some idiotic doomsday relic."

Pascale stared at her boots for a moment. She remembered herself, looking up at the rat:

"Thank you for your _eventual _candor, Fionnghal. In the future, if any of your personnel come into the plains unannounced, or under false pretenses of any kind, I'll give you directions to the place you can retrieve their bodies. Is that understood?"

Fionnghal nodded.

Pascale looked to the soldier following Fionnghal:

"Put the rat up front." She motioned to Quinn, still standing beside Fionnghal. "And put the juvie in back, with the others."

As the tigress walked off Quinn looked up at Fionnghal:

"Wh— what did she mean about Sonic being brought 'to his knees'? Where is he? What happened up there?"

Fionnghal looked down at the boy. Her blue eyes quivered, and she shook her head.

"Sonic...uh... he got hurt. Really... really _badly _hurt."

"He's gonna be okay, right?"

The soldier pressed his palm into Fionnghal's back. She barely reacted, slowly shuffling off for the vehicle.

"Fionnghal?" Quinn asked. "Fionnghal? He's gonna be _fine_, isn't he?"

The boy ran after her, insistently asking his questions.

But she gave him no answers.


	25. Tarnished Steel

_Author's Note:_ Would you believe that this chapter contains the very first f-bomb in 'Tribes'? I don't like a lot of swearing in stories— too often it just acts as an 'edgy' cover to spice up mediocre writing— but sometimes it's appropriate. Whenever I put a naughty word into a passage (and yeah, I always start with at least few) I always go back and try to do the passage without it, and usually it works out just fine— or even better— with the omission. Here, the flow just wasn't quite the same without it. So, with that in mind, f***ing enjoy! ;)

.

.

"_...and— lastly— they who would strike down the innocent and guilty, alike. These, above all, are the __**unforgivable sins**__; to those who would suffer them, otherwise: always beware the temptation to __**violate**__ the Code..."_

From the "Code of the Tribes" *

_*__Note__: Given the oral tradition of the Code, punctuation in the above passage is subject to change depending on the person retelling it._

.

.

"Tarnished Steel"

I.

Kakkari Nez rested his elbows on the sleek metal railing spanning the circular catwalk. His deep blue cloak ruffled in the wind, and he cinched his hood tight around his head. It covered most of the chameleon's face, allowing only his red, artificial eye to gaze out at the approaching _Egg Viper_. He absently tightened and relaxed the digits of his mostly-metal left hand, feeling that strange sensation of pneumatic tubes working in concert with his remaining tendons. It felt like knotted ropes being pulled over a steel blade, fraying apart with every inch. Twice his elbow managed to slip off the catwalk railing as he leaned against it; he'd yet to acclimate to that extremely distant sense of 'feeling' his metal elbow gave him. It was as if some venomous spider had numbed his arm with a bite.

It wasn't the most annoying thing he had to deal with, however. None of it was, actually. It wasn't the artificial breastplate over his chest, concealing his artificial organs as they churned their artificial fluids, either. No, the worst of it all came from the loss of the regeneration factor over a certain part of his body, and it was in a place one might least suspect.

It was his lips, if you can believe that.

Before he lost his regeneration factor Kakkari didn't even know what 'chapstick' was. He simply didn't need it. If his lips dried, then the flesh was sloughed off and replaced before it even had a chance to scab. No matter the weather outside— be it a freezer or a tinderbox— his lips were always moist, and they were always clean. Now they were a crusty mess, sore to the touch, and partially infected with some kind of opportunistic bacteria. What an indignity! A _bacteria _was infecting _him_. It made a mockery of everything he was, or at least everything that he used to be.

When he got his regeneration factor back, Kakkari thought, he would spend a whole month growing bacterial colonies in a lab, somewhere, just so he could slowly drown all the test tubes with bleach. Heck, he'd even make all the parental colonies watch as their daughter colonies died, in agony, before their eyes...

The chameleon wagged his head; he was sulking, and these days— for some reason— he tended to get very nonsensical when he sulked. Part of that had to do with certain 'beverages' he was reintroduced to in Delta Tribe; because of his regeneration factor Kakkari was always unable to experience certain 'effects' from these beverages. Now he could, and the aftereffects left his mood oscillating between feelings of grandeur and melancholy. Frankly, he still didn't really see the appeal of these beverages.

It didn't stop him from drinking them, though, and in abundance.

The mighty _Viper _descended from a bank of rust-colored clouds, tail section whipping with abandon. The head section came down slowly, bobbing on massive engines beneath the leviathan's 'neck'. The head landed on a small pad further along the catwalk, locking into place with a hiss from massive steel clamps. The rest of the ship remained aloft, absently snaking about in the sky. After a few seconds a sound began to echo all along the catwalk's frame. 'Sound' wasn't the right word, maybe. It was a 'thing'— very much like a sound— but so much more. It stung the nose, tickled the skin, and it made the ears hiss like speakers with their gain set too high.

All at once a series of massive tubes around the catwalk flared to life, launching concentrated beams of green light up into the ship's body. These beams hit the ship at different places, pulsing against the hull with an erratic rhythm.

Kakkari watched with disinterest as Tatu and the wingless Dame Commander disembarked from the vessel's head. The armadillo came out first, and he smoothly extended one hand to the Dame Commander when she reached the step between the _Viper's _door and the catwalk. She slapped that hand away with contempt.

Admittedly, that made Kakkari smile a little.

The next passenger to disembark was that creepy pipe-figurine, Dasy. The android whined on its wheeled base, clunking down on the catwalk, and sparks flew freely from its plumbing-like joints as it twisted its head about, surveying the catwalk. It blinked its silver eyes, and then went to whirring about, aimlessly wandering the sprawling catwalk.

Kakkari looked at the android's stick-like limbs, and he scratched at his own left arm. How much of _his _body was now just metal pipes and rivets, like that hideous thing? Well, how much did it matter, after all? Dasy was very like a skeleton, after a fashion, and what was more natural than a skeleton? Yeah, it's a pretty big change in form, but it's all got the same function, doesn't it? And functionality is key, right? In the end, what was the difference, really, in replacing steel for bone, and polymer for skin? Kakkari himself had an opinion on the matter:

There was a pretty big fucking difference.

The chameleon absently sauntered over to one of the giant tubes radiating a beam at the _Viper's _body. It was such a narrow beam— only a few inches across— but it was also so bright and alive. He moved his hand along the outside of the light, as if stroking the powerful beam.

"I'd keep my distance," a deep, smooth voice spoke from behind him. "If you ever plan on reproducing, someday..."

Kakkari faced the Eggman.

"I hadn't planned on it, actually." He motioned to the circular catwalk all around them. "Impressive setup you've got here."

"The 'Flying Battery' serves me well-enough," Eggman said. "Especially when I don't have time to land the _Viper _for recharging. That's a rather involved task. The Battery lets the _Viper's_ body stay up in the air for over a month at a time, until she needs to set down to refill her lithium tanks."

Eggman walked off a ways and stood against the railing overlooking Genocide City.

"I could use a little lithium myself, these days," Kakkari said. "It just might help to balance my mood out."

"You're depressed, Mister Nez?"

"In mourning," Kakkari grumbled. "For my regeneration factor."

"Still on that, are we?"

The chameleon scoffed. He motioned back to the pulsing beams:

"See, now 'Flying Battery' is a little misleading, isn't it?" Kakkari said. "That would imply some kinda... well, some kind of _battery _that actually _flies_, wouldn't it?"

"I'm actually working on that one," Eggman said. "The logistics are rather difficult."

Tatu, the Dame Commander, and a whole phalanx of Delta Tribe Regulars passed by the pair; they reached an elevator beyond the catwalk and quickly descended out of sight.

"Your brain trust looks like it's in a hurry," Kakkari noted.

"They're meeting with the wolves before we launch the next... 'phase' of operations. I want to move quickly."

"Then I don't see why you wanted to meet with _me _up here." Kakkari shook his head. "Anyway, I take it you put my information to good use?"

Eggman gripped the railing before him tightly; his black gloves squeaked as he twisted his wrists.

"'Good' might not be the right word. _Satisfying_."

Eggman turned around abruptly. He removed his black glasses and stared down at Kakkari with his rotted eyes:

"Tell me, Mister Nez: does the name 'Prower' mean anything to you at all?"

Kakkari scoffed:

"Of course it does," he nodded. Good ol' Doctor James, head of Omega Tribe's scientific department. Supposedly some kinda bona-fide genius."

"Doctor Prower is much more than that: he's a polymath."

"Hmm," Kakkari scratched his chin, smirking. "And here I have trouble just keeping up with basic arithmetic..."

"When I asked you for information on all members of _Filigree_, as well as their previous involvement in Omega Tribe, I thought I was being somewhat clear in my desires. Why did you not tell me that James Prower is hiding with the _Filigree _refugees in Theta Tribe?"

The chameleon pulled back his hood, allowing his unaltered eye to come into view. He scrunched that fleshy circle of skin around his beady black pupil, making for a very fierce little squint:

"Why didn't I tell you that? Maybe 'cause he _isn't_. I don't know anything about where the good doctor is—"

Eggman leaned forward, snarling:

"Then why on earth would Usahla Rose tell me that? Why, in his last agonizing breaths on this miserable planet, did he say that I could find Prower with _Filigree_? He must have believed it, Mister Nez, because— and you can believe me on this—at the time it was pure agony for him to say _anything_ at all."

"So you did kill Rose, huh? And tortured him, too?"

Eggman leaned against the railing. He crossed his arms and ground his yellow teeth together:

"We don't discuss field operations so freely, Nez. But I can tell you that Mister Rose _is _dead, that he died at my feet, in unspeakable agony, and that in his final moments he was openly begging me to end his suffering. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Kakkari looked at the man's cold-as-steel face for a moment; finally he smirked:

"Huh. Sure, whatever. Message received." He shook his head. "But I don't think Rose was talking about _James _Prower. He must've been talking about _Miles _Prower."

"Miles?"

"Jimmy's son." Kakkari sauntered over to the railing beside Eggman and struck a pose similar to the man's. "Hell of a doctor in his own right. Kid's a real wizard with the scalpel. And, like Mister Rose probably told you, Miles is in Theta Tribe's custody..."

Kakkari's voice trailed off as he noticed Dasy wheeling past them, throwing sparks in his wake; the android seemed to be doing laps around the catwalk, for some reason.

"Custody?" Eggman said. "Is he a prisoner?"

"Nah. 'Ward' might be the better term. The kit's only, like, 8-years-old, I think. And on top of that he's a little... well, mentally..." Kakkari waved his hand, perching his lips. "He's kinda _special_, let's say."

"He'd have to be, to be an 8-year-old surgeon," Eggman said. "What kind of nonsense is this, Nez?"

Kakkari shook his head:

"Don't ask me for the full story," he said. "All I know is that apparently good ol' Doctor James treated everything in his life like a science experiment, and when it came to having a little baby, well, he and his wife treated _that _like an experiment, too. Science isn't my thing, but from what I understand James and his wife did some 'distilling' of their genetic material before popping the finished egg in his wife's oven. Guy thought he'd nailed all the most 'desirable' traits in their chromosomes, and ditched all the 'inferior' ones. Tails was the product of all that."

"'Tails'?"

"Nickname."

"Why do people call him that?" Eggman asked.

"Probably because he has two of them."

Eggman looked over at Kakkari, reading the seriousness in the chameleon's face.

"Yeah, I dunno," Kakkari shrugged. "Maybe they smushed some of his stuff against the side of the test tube or something? His genes got a little scrambled, maybe? Genetic engineering works like that, doesn't it? Anyway, the whole experiment kinda went horribly wrong _and _horribly right at the same time: like I said, the kit is a medical genius— and he's no slouch with simple mechanics, either— but he also doesn't exactly have all his cornflakes in the box. Uh, to put it another way: his elevator doesn't quite go all the way to the top, if you get my meaning."

"Not even remotely," Eggman sighed. He scratched his chin and shook his head. "How long has the juvenile been in their custody?"

"Almost three years, maybe. He came to them a little while after the fall of Omega Tribe. He was turned over to _Filigree's _mistress at the same time Prower's lab shut down for good, and the doctor and his wife disappeared. Maybe that means Jimmy is died—"

Eggman shook his head:

"No, he is not. Not James Prower."

"How can you be so sure about that?"

"Prower is a lot like me," Eggman growled. "He's a _survivor_. Why didn't you tell me about the little fox before?"

"You asked for dossiers on all the former membersof Omega Tribe. By 'members' I assumed you meant 'active participants'. Tails would've been a toddler at the time—"

"Semantics," Eggman snarled.

"Next time be more specific. Semantics matter, mister man," Kakkari smirked.

"So does your regeneration factor. And the next time you get hung up on semantics, you can forget about any resources from my labs. I have far more loyal animals to see to, and their medical problems are far more serious than yours; they greatlyoutweigh any problems you have with that ridiculous superpower of yours."

"Is that all, or will I _also_ be dying at your feet, begging for my life?"

"Nothing's off the table," Eggman grumbled. He looked up at the swishing body of the _Egg Viper_.

"You gonna set that thing down?" Kakkari asked. "Ignoring my sarcasm, I _am _very serious: James Prower has _never _been a member of _Filigree_. I've never met the guy. Heck, I never even heard our Big Three ever mention the man's name during my time in _Filigree_."

Eggman sauntered over to the _Viper's _head. He ran his hand along the sleek metal 'skull', scratching at the thing as he would a contented housecat.

"No, I'm not setting the _Viper _down," Eggman shook his head. "This mission is still on. The codename will be Operation _Field Hunter_. The only thing that's changed is the target."

"You want Tails, huh? You think that James will come to the kit's rescue if you nab him?"

"Something like that," Eggman said. "After all, James is a survivor, like I said, and the best survivors tend to look out for their own genes..."

"So, are we talking about mailing Tails' toenails to his daddy's last known address, or—"

"We'll be forced to hit Theta Tribe hard, I imagine." Eggman cinched up one of his black gloves, ignoring the chameleon's words. "I doubt they'll be left with more than a few dozen survivors, when the smoke clears. Of course, that's not counting any possible interference from Sonic the hedgehog."

"Well, the Code binds him a bit, doesn't it? I mean, he never officially signed off on the whole 'Theta Tribe' thing, did he? That makes Asher and Fionnghal's little group _homeless_, technically." Kakkari pointed at the man. "And I hate to point it out to you, but doesn't the Code bind _you_, as well? Been a while since I've checked the good ol' Code of the Tribes, but I think you've still gotta give those miserable hobos some advance notice of any attack, don't you?"

"Under the Code? Yes. But we will not."

"I doubt your precious doggies will approve," Kakkari said.

"They won't have any complaints at all."

Eggman sauntered off, hands folded genteelly behind his back.

Kakkari watched the man walk. The chameleon perched his chapped lips:

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. "I'm sure the wolves won't care _at all _that you're bending the Code over a table. It's not like they militantly defend its terms, right down to the punctuation, or anything..."

"Wolves _do _uphold the Code, militantly."

"Gah!" Kakkari spun about. Dasy was right behind him, patiently lurking over his shoulder like a horror movie monster.

"And," Dasy continued, "wolves _do _defend the Code, even down to its punctuation." The android tilted its head. "In point of fact, armed fighting has occurred directly because of ambiguous punctuation in the Code. One interpreter might mistakenly use a colon instead of a period, for example, or vice versa. This is especially prone to happen with semicolons; nobody seems to use them correctly."

"What the hell are you doing out here anyway, robot?"

Dasy looked left, and then right, head craning awkwardly. He returned his head to level, blinking at the chameleon:

"Exercising."

"Exercising? Are you making fun of me?" Kakkari growled.

"Hard to tell, isn't it?"

"Why don't you take a tumble off the catwalk, pipe boy?"

Dasy looked over the catwalk railing, gazing down the thirty-story drop. When he looked back up at Kakkari his head sparked again:

"Drop distance is approximately 350 feet," he explained. "In general, I must stay within approximately 200 feet of the _Egg Viper _at all times."

"What? You got separation anxiety?" Kakkari scoffed.

"Of a fashion."

"You better remind your boss about the wolf honor code," Kakkari said. "Seriously: he'ssupposed to be some kind of freakin' genius, and he's about to break it into tiny pieces—"

"He is not. Because of the wolves' interpretation of the Code of the Tribes their honor code does _not _apply to the following individuals: senior members of the organization formerly called 'Omega Tribe', soldiers in the Omega Tribe special operations branch above the rank of 'lieutenant', Doctor James Prower, his wife, and any personnel associated with 'Prower Technologies'. Furthermore, any operation directly involving the 'acquisition' of these targets is similarly unbound by the wolf honor code."

Kakkari scoffed. He shook his head.

"They're hypocrites, huh? So their 'honor' does have its limits, does it?"

Dasy tilted his head to the opposite side:

"Yes. Wouldn't yours?" He asked.

Eggman walked back to Kakkari's side:

"It is for that reason, Mister Nez, the wolves were allowed to participate in the assault on Ramoth. We gave no warning there, either. But, so long as all precautions were taken to prevent unnecessary loss of life, every means was available to me and the wolves in pursuing Usahla Rose."

"Mmm. How'd that work out for you? The 'loss of life' thing, I mean?"

"Dozens died in the Ramoth invasion," Eggman said. "Soldiers, mostly. Poor fellows were just protecting their land, really. A few civilians trampled each other in the panic, too. Ah, and a couple of kids were mentally scarred in the process, too."

"_Juveniles_," Kakkari corrected him.

"No," Dasy wagged his head. "They _were _'kids', actually."

"So tell me this, Mister Eggman, sir," Kakkari said. "How are you gonna 'prevent unnecessary loss of life' when you charge into the Thallomoor? Like you said, Theta Tribe won't go down without a fight, and a bloody one, at that. You'll have to kill off the Banshee, too, most likely. I don't see that working out too well for you..."

"I have no intention of fighting the hedgehog," Eggman snarled. The man again walked up to the massive skull of the _Viper_ and surveyed its fearsome curves. "If _he _intends to fight _me_? Well, that's a different story. The _Viper _is far more than she seems, Mister Nez. For all its polished glory this vessel is caked in its fair share of blood..."

The chameleon smirked:

"Caked in blood, huh? Well, it doesn't really show the rust, does it?"

Eggman faced the chameleon:

"I have no overriding wish to tarnish it any further at this time. I assume that your hatred of _Filigree's _leadership doesn't extend to all its personnel, does it, Nez?"

Kakkari's smirk spread:

"Heh. And _I _assume that you're about to ask me to do something that'll help you prevent that 'unnecessary loss of life', am I right?"

"You're most astute."

"A field operation?"

"Befitting a _Field Hunter_."

Kakkari approached the head of the _Viper _and mockingly scratched at the thing's 'chin':

"And here I thought I was supposed to be your grand investigator."

"You are. Tatu is currently downstairs arguing to everyone that we simply _can't_ attack Theta Tribe: they're too entrenched in the woods; their security setup is too strong to overcome; the Banshee is too powerful a threat. Hell, the _weather _is too humid. Take your pick. He's been badmouthing the idea ever since we got back on the _Viper _in Ramoth. That's loyalty, for you, isn't it? I suppose one must make do with what one has. But if, through a cunning secret mission, _you_ were able to acquire the target of this operation without firing a single shot then you would both raise your own profile in Delta Tribe while subsequently driving a further wedge between Tatu and the wolves."

Kakkari scratched his own chin:

"While simultaneously weakening support for him amongst the Delta Tribe Regulars, too. Huh. It might make things easier for you to, uh, 'dismiss' him, when that slimy armadillo finally outlives his usefulness." Kakkari looked up at Eggman. "Wow. I gotta apologize. You've really worked this whole thing out, haven't you?"

"Of course I have, Mister Nez." Eggman leaned down closer to the chameleon's face. "After all: I'm some kind of freakin' _genius_."

Kakkari faced the city skyline, leaning on the catwalk railing once again. He looked out into the distance for quite some time.

"So let me get this straight: you trust _me _to wander back to my old team, kidnap a helpless juvenile, and then come back with him?"

"I don't 'trust' you at all, Mister Nez," Eggman said. "However, given your history with that 'team', and your desire to see your regeneration factor returned to you, I can accurately hypothesize what action you'll take."

"To a certainty, huh?"

"Need _can_ produce loyalty, of a fashion. And I predict your compliance to better than a five-percent margin of error."

Kakkari smiled:

"Kinda unscientific, isn't it? I thought all the best researchers go for a one-percent error rate?"

"One must make do with what one has, Mister Nez."

Kakkari faced Eggman. He shrugged:

"You guys in Delta Tribe seem to spend a lot of time kidnapping juveniles," he said. "It's kinda weird. Now, regularly, as a point of my own personal honor, I would find that kinda practice abhorrent."

Eggman stepped toward the chameleon:

"And in _this _situation?" He cooed.

Kakkari's blood-red eye narrowed into a slit, the steel aperture hissing as it closed:

"My honor _does _have its limits, Mister Doctor Eggman, sir..."

Eggman's lips twisted into a thin smile. He looked behind him at Dasy, still doing laps around the catwalk:

"Dasy!" He yelled. "Set the _Viper _down. We won't be needing her in the immediate future."

Once the android shuttled back into the ship Eggman again looked to the chameleon:

"Operation _Field Hunter _is entirely your play, Mister Nez. Just tell our quartermaster what you need—"

"A ship," Kakkari interrupted. "Something small. _Pathetic_ might be the right word. Let your boys use it for a little target practice beforehand. So long as they don't hit anything 'vital'."

Eggman nodded:

"I believe I understand you," he said. "And what else will you require?"

Kakkari scratched at his artificial chest, rubbing the metal breastplate:

"_Surgery_," he growled.


	26. Blemished Stone

_Author's Note_: At long last we get to meet the true villain of the story. His name is 'Cairn', and he is somewhat grumpy…

.

.

.

"Blemished Stone"

I.

Sonic opened his eyes.

He drew a sharp breath, looking all around.

"You are ill at ease, my pupil?"

Sonic looked up; the old rabbit stared down at him. His kindly, squinty eyes barely peeked out from the gray hair of his ears, which flopped lazily over his forehead.

"No, master," Sonic mumbled. He stared down at his crossed legs, awkwardly tightening his adolescent fists against the loose fabric of his sparring uniform.

Some other students in the class, all of them sitting in an orderly row on their mats, took to giggling.

"Such a surprise, you breaking the morning meditation, Sonic hedgehog," the old rabbit said. "You are always among the most serene of the class." He raised a massive, bushy eyebrow, allowing one ancient gray eye to peek out. "Are you not at all... 'troubled', Sonic?"

"No, master," Sonic wagged his head. "Not at all."

They quickly paired off to practice the morning exercises. First it was throws, followed by blocks. During one grapple Sonic looked out across the long room, to the open-air patio beyond their practice area. Harsh morning light raged there, streaming all across the grand southern grounds of the Royal Palace's gardens. A body moved through that light, and it seemingly burned within it.

Fionnghal sauntered around the practicing students; every eye in the room got wide as they noticed her. She wore a plain black vest with tight leggings beneath, and her tail was banded up in black leather strips. A logo graced the breast of her vest: four red lines drawn down the garment, almost like claw marks, minus the thumb. All around her students moved away, lips whispering uneasily. A young female skunk— certainly no older than 12— took a light brush from the rat's wrapped tail and she treated it like a kiss from a leper, reeling backward and brushing off her fur where the tail touched it. The rat ignored all this, smirking nonchalantly, and she leaned against an ornate pillar on the fringes of the practice area.

The old rabbit instructor harshly berated his students, ordering them back to practice. Sonic excused himself from his sparring partner and approached the rat.

"Seriously? You call all _this _'fight training'?" Fionnghal spread her paws, scoffing. "This is just a tumbling class. You guys planning on joining the circus?"

"It's not just about learning how to win fights, Pew."

"What else is there, hmm?" The rat smiled, showing off those oversized front teeth of hers. She'd grown those teeth out fully just last year, and her head had yet to catch up, making for an adorable mismatch in size.

"So, how're you doin', runt?" Fionnghal punched Sonic playfully in the arm.

"Alright. You were gone awhile, this time. How're things with you, Pew?"

She shrugged:

"Good, I guess. Better than that, maybe. I'm in really good with my matrons, right now; I finished my part in that Dagroian Wild mission with flying colors."

"I can't believe they sent you girls after a bunch of smugglers. That's all it was, right? You know, that's really crummy, Pew. They're just a bunch of koalas and sugar gliders trying to get out of the Wild and into Sulumac'Dun. It's really tough to make a living out there; I don't blame them for trying to sneak into the city—"

"Neither do I," the rat said. "I _do _blame the smugglers, though, for not making sure that all their 'cargo' made it _into_ the city..."

Sonic tilted his head.

"C'mon, Sonic," Fionnghal sighed. "Let's just say that a bunch of their 'passengers' disappeared from the manifests..."

The hedgehog still blinked in confusion.

"Mostly good-looking _girls_, Sonic?" Fionnghal rolled her eyes. "And the occasional _really _good-looking boy..."

"Oh." Sonic's eyes widened.

The rat patted his shoulder condescendingly:

"You are just so adorably naïve sometimes, Sonic..."

"So, they... uh—"

"They're safe. Now, at least." Fionnghal crossed her arms and stared down at the marble floor. She ground one heel into it, sneering. "You know, sometimes it can be really hard to enjoy my work." She looked up at Sonic, and her eyes were nearly demonic. "It isn't _always_, though."

"You killed them _all_, didn't you?" Sonic crossed his arms. "The smugglers, I mean?"

"My only target was the head of the operation," she said. "But, once I learned about how they were treating all their 'off the books cargo', well, I used my '_discretion_' with the rest of 'em. They give us girls discretion sometimes, you know..."

The hedgehog frowned at her, and his giant black eyes were sorely disapproving.

"Do me a favor, Sonic, and don't give me any of your speeches this time, hmm? Just this once?"

Sonic stared down at his feet; he nodded, and when he returned his head to level he had a different subject on his mind:

"Are you _really _doing alright, Pew?" He asked. "They didn't put you back out in the field too soon? It's only been a few months since, well, the injury..."

The rat scoffed, looking away. She brushed down the fur on the back of her neck:

"Ah, what? _That_? That was nothing. I heal up fast, even for a member of my species. Honestly, I was ready to go after a _week_. I mean, they actually kept me in the infirmary waytoo long."

"You sure about that?"

The rat narrowed her eyes:

"Of course. What: you callin' me a _liar_?"

"Not really. I _am _calling you 'secretive', though..."

Fionnghal quickly looked to Sonic's classmates, still sparring with each other. Again she scoffed:

"You know, I hear that they've got an advanced class in this, uh, this thing that you do, here. Maybe that's where they teach you the _real_ stuff. 'Cause all these little tumbles you guys are taking is seriously embarrassing."

"Actually, no. That's just the _older _student's class; you gotta be at least 16 years old to enroll in that. Every class teaches the same stuff."

"How to fall square on your rear, you mean?"

The hedgehog took a few steps back. He smiled playfully, putting himself in a combat stance, and he motioned to the rat.

"You're not serious?" Fionnghal lazily pushed herself off the pole.

"C'mon, Pew," Sonic wiggled his fingers at her. "I mean, if we aren't learning _anything_ here, then you should be able to pin me..."

The rat cracked her neck.

"I can do worse than _that_." She flexed her limbs, wiggling them about, and then chafed at the feel of her black vest. She fiddled with the shoulder straps.

"Rather play with your clothes than spar with me, Pew?" Sonic smirked.

The rat grunted in exasperation:

"Eh! It's annoying. I'm starting to 'fill out' up here..." she cupped her chest with both hands, wriggling everything 'into place'.

Sonic flushed:

"C'mon! I don't wanna hear about all _that_!"

"Neither do I," Fionnghal growled. "I hear our matrons have some kinda drink that can put a stop to it. Hormones, maybe, or something like that. Just as well. Frankly that's two weak spots I don't really need."

Sonic again squared-off into a fighting stance. His grin spread:

"Well, don't worry: I promise not to bruise 'em..."

Fionnghal returned the grin, and she rolled her eyes, walking up to Sonic's face.

"C'mon," the hedgehog said. "Try 'n take me down."

The rat shook her head, and then she lunged at him. Sonic parried Fionnghal's first attempt, and then the rat suddenly leapt into the air, putting all her weight to work, and whipped her body around, bringing her fist down on Sonic's face. She missed by an inch. Instead, Sonic took that fist in two hands, and then all the weight and force of that 14-year-old rat's body suddenly stopped being her ally to command.

It was used against her, instead.

Fionnghal landed hard on the mat beneath them, prone; Sonic perched on top of her, still holding one of her arms in a tight lock, and he chuckled at her.

"Whaddya think of _that_, hmm?"

That ancient gray-haired rabbit wandered over to watch the pair spar. He gave the hedgehog his two cents:

"An interesting technique, Sonic hedgehog."

"Thank you, master—"

"Though neither polished nor proper," the rabbit continued. "Your throw was forceful, but not focused; it had a most excellent chance of breaking your attacker's arm, or cracking her ribs upon landing."

Fionnghal looked up at the rabbit, head cocked:

"To be fair, that's kinda what you'd _wanna _do to your 'attacker' in real life, you know—"

The elder rabbit shook his head.

"That is not the goal of the techniques we learn, here. Here we teach the 'way of unifying forces'; the point of study is how energies can be put to proper use. An attacker's momentum— charging headlong into combat— is a great force, and while the attacker would use it to attack, the defender can likewise commandeer it and use it to _defend_, when the proper techniques are applied. But any defender should not only use that force to protect against his own injury, but even his assailant's, as well. There is harmony in this idea."

"And stupidity," Fionnghal muttered under her breath.

Sonic leaned down near her ear:

"Seriously, Pew: if this were real life, I'd have you dead to rights—"

Sonic caught his breath; he inched his stomach off the rat's back, and beneath him the glitter of a tiny dagger shone, held tight in the rat's free fist. She didn't even poke him enough to draw blood, but Sonic quickly got off her, taking a few steps back.

"If this were real life," she said as she got up, "I'd have pureed your lungs, Sonic. You wouldn't be dead to rights so much as just, y'know, _dead_."

"That's cheating," he mumbled.

"Not really, 'cause in real life fighting's got no rules. If you're fighting for your life, that is."

The rabbit instructor bowed his head, shaking it somberly, and he shuffled off to oversee the other sparring students.

"I better get out of your hare's hair," she mumbled to Sonic. "Don't think he appreciates _my _philosophy..." Fionnghal bumped Sonic's shoulder with her fist. "See you later, runt."

The rat sauntered off, but Sonic called after her:

"By the way: happy birthday, Pew."

She stopped and turned around.

"Hmm? Is it?" The rat put a finger to her lips, and then she blinked. "Oh, I guess that _is _today, isn't it? Huh. Well, thanks."

"I got you a little something," Sonic said. "You never told me what you wanted, so I had to improvise..."

"I already told you: the shower curtain rod is broken in our bunks. It's been out for a few weeks. One of the girls had to jury-rig her training sword to hold up our shower curtain for the time being. You could've gotten us one of _those_—"

"A curtain rod is a stupid gift—"

"It's practical," Fionnghal shrugged.

"I think thegift I got you is pretty practical, too. I'll let you be the judge of that, though." Sonic smiled, crossing his arms. "I'll even let you _name _it, if you want to..."

The rat cocked her head and gave Sonic a quizzical frown.

"'Name' it?"

"Yeah. It's actually a—"

The fur on Sonic's neck leapt to attention. His heart began hammering away in his chest, and his breathing became rapid and shallow, with the vapor of his breath suddenly showing in the room. Fionnghal stood before him, head still adorably cocked, motionless. Around him the sparring students froze in their positions, unmoving, unblinking, and not breathing. There was no movement anywhere in the room, and no sign of life. Except for one thing:

A breath ruffled against the back of his neck.

Sonic turned, very slowly, as if in a dream, and he flailed backward when a face met his.

The leopard gecko gibbered insanely, stalking forward with terrible steps, bloody yellow gunk flowing freely from its horrible artificial eyes. And, most terrifying of all, in an outstretched hand, he bore a terrible beacon, and it burned yellow in his hand, like a midmorning sun: the Frostblessor chaos emerald.

Sonic's eyes widened as he stared at that emerald; the hedgehog's lips quivered and he walked backward, panicked.

"What's the matter?" The gecko chortled. "Are you not at all... '_troubled'_, Sonic? Hahahahaha!"

That insane laugh; that brilliant light. That _terrible_ color...

Sonic panicked. And in that panic, he ran back.

And he closed his eyes.

II.

He opened his eyes.

The crash cart sped through the medical center corridor, wobbling on squeaky wheels. Nurses plugged electrodes into monitors while a stern-faced antelope doctor took vitals from the mess of flesh and blood lying in the bed.

Fionnghal lay on her back, eyes fluttering unsteadily. Blood trickled from her half-open lips, and when she sneezed she sent a plume of red mucous out her nostrils. She started choking, heaving her chest, and she flailed her arms deliriously. One of the nurses held her down while another stuffed a plastic tube down her throat, making her retch as it sucked out her airway. Nearly a liter of bile and blood came up through that tube, as if it were an oversized straw sucking up a particularly thick strawberry milkshake. Afterward the rat was finally able to take a sputtering gasp of air, and she hissed it in, pained, as if the air were acid to her lungs.

Three young female rats raced through an intersecting corridor— none of them older than 15— and they intercepted the cart, running alongside it.

"Gods," one of them whispered. "What the hell happened?"

"They said she took two in gut—"

"—and one in the chest."

The smallest of the rats gripped Fionnghal's dangling paw in both of hers:

"How—"

"Bastard got tipped off!" The oldest rat growled. "He had a crew waiting on the other side of the door. Fi broke it down and then she was starin' down half-a-dozen gun barrels, with only her sword in her hand. She tried diving away at the last second; little thing moved like she had a motor on her rear..."

"It wasn't enough," the smallest rat said. She gripped Fionnghal's hand tighter and brushed the blood out of the fur on her face.

For a moment— just a brief second— the wounded rat's eyes seemed to focus on the trio above her. She locked eyes with the smaller rat, who held her head comfortingly and looked down at her with compassion. In that brief second Fionnghal looked up at her with a different emotion:

She was scared. She was really, _really_ scared.

The cart smashed through a set of doors leading into the ICU, and the doctor, nurses, and young rats disappeared beyond them.

Sonic stopped at those doors, staring vacantly at his own reflection in the glass as they swung back and forth. He stood there for awhile, long enough for a nurse to notice him. She was a brown rat, and she came up to the young hedgehog's side, bowing down and staring at him with kindly blue eyes:

"Are you here for that wounded girl? The assassin?"

Sonic, otherwise in no condition to speak, nodded.

The nurse put a paw on Sonic's shoulder:

"I wouldn't worry too much, love. Her species is _very _strong. Even the juveniles. You'd be amazed what a little girl like that can live through."

Sonic stared at the floor. He shook his head.

"She shouldn't have to," he mumbled.

Weeks passed... Surgeries were performed... Hospital visits were made...

Sonic had to duck as he wandered into the basement laboratory; two burly warthogs handled a long metal beam, and they nearly took the hedgehog's head off as they walked. These underside rooms were cramped and dingy, and they smelled of molten steel and electricity. The young hedgehog wandered past metallurgists and smiths busy at work, until he finally found a grizzled old ocelot kneeling over a table covered with schematics. The old cat's spotted fur was long-since ruined by a thousand different burns and chemical discolorations, an occupational hazard of working on the forges. He only looked up at Sonic briefly, and his weathered copper eyes instantly returned to the papers before him.

"You must be the young master Sonic," he wearily droned. "A pleasure, I'm sure, little master."

It clearly was _not_.

"Thank you for seeing me, forge master," Sonic bowed.

"A courtesy for your instructor, I assure you. I was surprised to hear that someone in your... um, 'discipline' would wish to commission a weapon from the royal armory. You can understand that we don't get many requests from students in your branch of schooling." The ocelot rolled up his schematics and pointed them at Sonic's face. He tapped Sonic's black nose a few times. "That said: if you want a weapon, young master, then make an appointment with one of my apprentice workers. They'll figure out what it is you need, exactly, and the price you'll pay for it."

The ocelot began toddling off, lumbering from side to side in his heavy work suit.

"I already know what I want," Sonic said. "And I'd like _you_ to make it for me, forge master."

The ocelot scoffed:

"You dream, young hedgehog—"

"And I think you'll end up doing it for _free_, sir."

The ocelot stopped walking. He looked back down at Sonic, and his gnarled lips curled:

"Now you joke!"

The ocelot slapped his schematics down on the table beside him, and he crossed his muscular arms.

Sonic slapped a glowing white chunk of stone down on top of those schematics. And then he crossed _his _skinny arms.

The ocelot gaped at the glowing rock. He slowly touched it with one finger, running his paw over the pulsing surface, and he muttered slowly to himself.

"A QED?" He whispered. "H— how did some snot-nosed little student like _you _manage to get your hands on this?"

"This snot-nosed little student got top marks in his class, last term," Sonic said. "And _this _was the prize they gave me for it." The young hedgehog took a step toward the ocelot, craning his head up to meet his gaze. "Forge master: I've heard that you'd be willing to do almost _anything_ to work a QED into a weapon—"

"Ah, I'd give my remaining testicle to be able to build a QED-powered weapon, little master—"

Sonic leaned back, curling his lips:

"Too much information..."

"But," the old ocelot shook his head, "I cannot. And I am truly sorry for it. It is the law, and a most strict one, at that. None in my workshop may construct such a weapon, master hedgehog, without an official decree personally signed by a member of the Royal Family, itself. If I were to build a weapon around this QED without such authorization I'm afraid we'd _both _end up hanging from our toes in the palace dungeons until judgment day—"

Sonic slapped a rolled-up scroll on the tabletop. It was sealed with red wax, and the impression in the wax showed a stylized set of horns all tangled up with each other, looping about in an intricate pattern.

"What is that?" The ocelot asked.

"An official decree," Sonic said. "Personally signed by the paw of His Royal Highness Asher Shope, prince of Sulumac'Dun, firstborn male of the High King's line, heir apparent to the throne, defender of the royal line, guardian of the Velvet Crown, and a few other things I'm probably forgetting at the moment." Sonic motioned to the document. "Prince Shope wants you to build _him_ a weapon around that QED."

The ocelot broke the wax seal, unrolled the scroll, and squinted as he scanned it with his ruddy eyes. When he looked back at Sonic he appeared flabbergasted:

"Our young prince wants a QED weapon... built to the exact specifications of _Sonic the hedgehog_?" He shook his head. "Gods of the High King: you've got friends in high places, young master!"

"Well, I'm a friendly guy..."

"Then, uh, you'll be wanting _what_, exactly? Pistol? Shotgun? Flamethrower? Something more modern— like a railgun— perhaps? Ah, or maybe a laser rifle? Oh! Or some kind of cold-fusion-powered antimatter-generating target annihilation system—"

"I'm thinking something more old-fashioned, actually. Can you build a blade around that QED?"

The ocelot's dull gold eyes narrowed. He salivated with pleasure:

"Ha! Indeed! After all, that's more fitting, isn't it? Yes: a more civilized weapon, from a less civilized age! Oh, my dear young master! With a QED as its base I can make a blade— a grand _sword_— unlike anything this world has ever seen. A sword more deadly than a battalion of armored tanks!"

Sonic shook his head.

"That's not exactly what I'm after."

The ocelot blinked and frowned:

"What do you mean? You are not looking for a _deadly _weapon, hedgehog?"

"That's incidental," Sonic said. "_Offense _isn't the problem, forge master. What I'm concerned about is defense. I want a weapon that can keep whoever's using it safe, and not necessarily cause any more damage to its targets than normal. I need something that can guarantee that the animal who holds it will never fall in battle..."

Sonic's lips tightened; a chill burned his back, as if a mountain windstorm suddenly gusted into the room. He turned, and when he turned he was brought face-to-face with that hideous yellow light, held in that hideous reptile hand.

"_You_ _dream_, young hedgehog!"

That insane voice fell into a demonic laugh. Teeth shivered in a crooked mouth. Spit curled down emaciated lips.

Sonic panicked. And in that panic, he ran back.

And he closed his eyes.

III.

Sonic opened his eyes.

The green hills slept under a sea of hazy blue, highlighted by the stunning majesty of the full moon. An alabaster glint rose on the horizon: Mobius' colorful second moon was well on its way to join its big sister, and the pair shone like sparkling pearls over the dark green majesty of the Oğluabubus Valley.

Sonic rolled onto his side, disturbing the picnic blanket on the grass. He rested his fist on his temple and stared down at his companion, smiling. When Amy finally stirred beside him, batting those delicate lashes, Sonic chuckled.

"What time is it?" She blinked those brilliant green eyes, rubbing sleep out of the folds.

"The second moon is just rising," Sonic whispered.

Amy rubbed the quills on her head, grunting.

"You should've woken me up, sooner! Daddy will be waiting for me!"

"Couldn't help it," Sonic slowly 'walked' his fingers along Amy's quills, playfully flicking them. "I love the way the second moon's light shines on your fur."

"It's all pink-on-pink," Amy smirked. "It can't be _that _stunning, can it?"

The hedgehog leaned in for a kiss, and when he was done he teased the fur over Amy's brow:

"Well, on you _any _color looks good." He lay down on his back and stared up at the stars. "And don't worry about Ushala; the whole security council is having a late night, tonight."

"Oh. Then maybe I should drop by the council chambers later and say goodnight."

Sonic shook his head:

"They're not in chambers, tonight. They're down at the science labs. The eggheads have been bellyaching about some kind of astronomy experiment they're running, and I guess they finally got the council's attention."

"Astronomy? Why would that interest the council? You think we're gonna get clobbered by a meteor, or something?"

Sonic's eyes glittered in the starlight as he stared up into the sky:

"No, it's nothing like that. I've got the inside story, and it's all nonsense. Apparently the eggheads have been investigating the Rainbow. They think they can see— what'd they call it?— 'ripples', or something, in it."

"What does _that _mean?"

Sonic looked over at the girl, and he playfully tapped her black nose with one finger:

"What else? Nothing, of course. It's the _Rainbow_. It's just kinda... y'know: _there_, up in the sky. It 'hiccups' every now and then, I guess. But it never actually _does _anything. Foolish scientists have wasted their whole careers studying it."

"Just 'cause it doesn't do anything doesn't mean it isn't _something_," Amy reciprocated the affectionate touch to Sonic's nose. "And just because _we _can't seem to find a way to get across it, who's to say that someone else on one of the other sides won't? If there's anyone out there, I mean. You know, I read that they used to worship the Rainbow in ancient times. Out in the Dagroian Wild. It was the birds, mostly."

The hedgehog scoffed as he looked up at the star-filled sky:

"Figures. That thing's _for _the birds..."

"It makes sense." Amy followed Sonic's gaze and looked up at the cold night sky. "I mean, I guess that the birds can actually _see_ the Raibow, too: ultraviolet and all."

Sonic looked back at the girl, again smiling:

"I wonder how _you'd _look under ultraviolet light..."

Amy smirked and leaned in closer to him, searching for Sonic's fingers between their bodies:

"You said that _any _color looks good on me, didn't you?"

The girl pulled back when she felt cold metal press against her hand instead of the warmth she expected from Sonic's fingers. She held up her hand, and cupped inside it was a shining brooch.

"I'm guessing gold will look good, too," Sonic whispered.

"What is this?" Amy turned the brooch over in her hand. It was a curious design, like a starburst pattern made out of many tiny pieces, each no bigger than a broken toothpick. Each piece of the pattern had been drenched in the finest gold, and the whole arrangement sparkled like a star fallen to earth.

"Are these little pieces here..." Amy looked up at Sonic: "Claws? These are all _cat _claws, aren't they?"

Sonic nodded:

"Got it from the kitty cats over in Ubasti, during that trip I had to take last week."

"They must've really liked you," Amy continued marveling at the brilliant brooch.

"Not exactly. Actually, they kinda thought I was being 'fast and loose' with things, if you can believe that. They're really touchy animals. It's all just protocol and formalities with them—"

"I thought you _liked _protocol and formalities."

"Even I have my limits." He motioned to the brooch with his head. "That's a traditional cat talisman, made with the worn-out claws of their eldest warriors. It's supposed to confer 'protection' to whoever wears it. Kitty council was sending me a message: with the way I do things, I need all the protection I can get."

Amy considered this for a moment, still bobbling the brooch in her hand:

"Well, it's not _totally _an insult—"

"Just enough of one," Sonic said. "Not for the reason they think, though..."

Amy tried handing the thing back over to Sonic, but he gently cupped her fingers over it. He pressed her hand to her chest while kissing her on the forehead:

"See, I happen to be damn-near invincible. So, no worries..."

Amy wrinkled her nose:

"The fact that you may actuallythink you _are_ invincible is what worries me." She stared down at the brooch in her hand. "But I really can't take this, Sonic..."

"Sure you can. I insist."

"I _can't_ take this."

"Go on, now: put it on for me, so I can see how it looks."

"I can't _take_ this!"

He felt his stomach churn, and it did a queasy little somersault on him— it was kind of like the feeling of falling in a dream. His feet hit cobbled stones. Suddenly the cold, sacred night was replaced by radiant daylight.

And another light, too, shining on a raised dais.

Amy leapt up the steps in twos and stood before the massive emerald. It bathed her skinny body in a pulsing green light. The cold grey arms of the cutting device hovered overhead, and they sent a swirling kaleidoscope of laser beams into the emerald, busily cleaving it in two.

"I can't _take this_!" She screamed. The pink hedgehog pointed an accusing finger into the crowd, singling out the tall figure of Eggman, standing beside her father. "He can't be trusted! The humans have already attacked us, once! Who _knows _what he'll do when he gets his half of the Master Emerald! We can't let them take this!"

She spun about and placed her hands on the cutting device. Slowly, ponderously, the thing tilted, and then it fell away from the massive gemstone. The swirling light inside the emerald faded, and then it was replaced by something else: six different dark spots in the stone began to brighten, and then those spots pulsed with a brilliant, terrifying white light.

Sonic's feet moved up the dias, and he moved slower than a sedated tree sloth.

Amy's head whipped about to face him, turning even slower than Sonic moved. She looked at him with two large, puzzled eyes, and then she blinked once. That golden claw brooch shone proudly on her chest.

And when her body burned apart in that terrifying inferno of light it became a globule of pure, molten gold. For just an instant it hovered there, quivering over what used to be Amy's chest, and then it scattered into the unfolding light like a drop of rain hitting the road.

Amy's eyes lasted longer than the rest of her, and they never lost that innocent, puzzled look. There was no time for anything else.

The light threw Sonic clear, and his body tumbled head-over-heel forever. When he finally came to rest he was at the feet of a certain awful lizard, and the creature held his chaos emerald tight, still salivating with pleasure as he mocked the hedgehog:

"Any color looks good on her, doesn't it? Well: how'd all _those _colors look on her?"

Sonic scooted backward on his rear, clawing at the earth behind him as he desperately sought to get away.

"Tell me! Tell me!" The lizard stumbled forward, laughing in his face. "Tell me! _How'd_ _she_ _look_?"

Sonic panicked. And in that panic, he ran back.

And he closed his eyes.

IV.

Sonic opened his eyes.

Sunlight streamed in through uneven glass panes. Those off-kilter windows— stuck in their knobby little wooden frames— were so damn kitschy, weren't they? Yup, absolutely. But they went with everything else: the hokey wooden table and chair set, those gaudy, thick flokati rugs laid out at intervals all along the hall, and even that preposterous hearth set into the far wall of the main room, complete with a crooked mantle over its top. Long blue curtains fluttered beside those windows. He used to hide in them often, until his parents learned to look for him there in a pinch. Up until then he was able to escape many unpleasant things by diving into their folds at the right time.

Baths, mostly.

He walked slowly, toddling on his tiny legs. He looked over at the hearth and the dead coals inside. It was all as cold as a grave. Any other day his father would've made the coals hot after awkwardly stoking them about, ready for his mother to work her 'magic' with the stew pot. Sonic always tried to pretend to like it, whatever it was she'd manage to 'cook'. Bless her heart, his mother was never much of a chef. She was no 'professional' homemaker, so to speak.

But she tried.

His mother's true profession was something else, entirely. His father's, too. They both were more comfortable carrying rifles and shotguns into grand battles than using hearth pokers and soup ladles to cook a cozy family meal. But they'd quit that other life more than six years ago. When his mother's belly first stirred with him they both questioned their chosen profession. When his parents first looked him in his newborn eyes—those big, black 'Eyes of Peace Unending', they christened them— they both resolved to put up their guns and tend the home fires. It wasn't always easy for them, Sonic knew, and it was always only a matter of time before circumstances conspired to pull them back into the fray. They couldn't hope to stay on the sidelines forever. Deep down inside, Sonic always knew that.

But, still, they tried.

He was sullen that day. Well, that wasn't the right word. He was nastier than that. He had said things, and they were things he didn't know if he could ever take back. He even refused to come out of his room for them.

At first, anyway.

When he did, racing out the door on his little legs, sprinting as fast as he could, he burst through the front door and out onto the steps in a panic. Nascent tears welled up in his eyes as he dashed down the lane, nearly tripping over his own feet as he raced past a whole line of people slowly moving down the road. Many of them were his neighbors— faces he knew: teachers, bakers, engineers— but they were not dressed like he knew them. Many wore old, moth-ridden military uniforms with faded patches, recently pulled from the back of their closets, and they carried rusty, dusted-off rifles and other old salvaged arms.

The hedgehog pushed through this throng, and as he forced himself around and between the sea of miscellaneous legs he grew ever fearful. Suddenly, with merciful warmth, he heard the most wondrous sound. It was soft, like a spring breeze.

It was his name, spoken by his own mother's tongue.

Sonic looked behind him, and there they were: his mother and father, both decked out in their own old uniforms, both with weapons slung over their backs. They stood patiently, allowing others to pass by them as Sonic toddled up before them. For a moment there was silence. Finally his father got down on one knee, smiling delicately:

"Come to see us off after all, son?"

The juvenile said nothing at first. He only stared up into his mother's eyes, and his own eyes began to quiver.

"You know that we don't want to leave you, son," his father continued. "We have to, though, to _protect _you. I know it isn't easy to understand. I only hope that, someday, you can see..."

Sonic's mother gently rested one hand on her son's head. She delicately ran it back along his quills.

"You can be angry," she said. "I know you are. And it's alright. It's alright for you to be angry. Your father and I had to make a choice, and I know that upsets you. Whether you can ever forgive us is your decision—"

The juvenile's quivering eyes burst with tears; he gripped his mother's waist.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" He bawled.

His mother merely stroked his head, holding him close.

"No. Don't be, dear," she whispered.

His father rested a hand on the shoulder of his mother's ratty uniform.

"Don't you worry, son. I'll look after both of us. We'll be back before you miss us."

Sonic's grip slacked; he reached into his shirt and took out a small trinket: it was a mess of macaroni, all glued together in a vaguely diamond shape. The edges were painted with bright gold and red, done with all the care that a typical six-year-old child could give them, and a piece of white string was looped around the top.

"Mama: take _this_!" Sonic pressed the small thing into her hand. "We made it in class. Teacher calls 'em 'amurettes'; she said we could make wishes on them, and they could come true, if we wished hard enough!"

His mother gently took up the pathetic macaroni mess, and her smile widened.

"What did you wish for?" She asked.

"I wished for it to protect you both!" The juvenile's tears started flowing again. "'An... 'an it will, 'cause I wished _extra hard_! I really did!"

For just a moment the sun emerged from behind a bank of clouds. The warm light highlighted his parents' faces, looking down at the hedgehog with serene smiles. Then someone in the crowd jostled the juvenile from behind. At first Sonic didn't notice, but when a rough hand gripped his shoulder he winced in pain, and spun around to face a horror looming over him.

The lizard's grin was wider than his mouth could manage; his jaw seemed to crack apart beneath a mountain of dried spit gumming up its corners:

"Wish..._harder_!" He chortled.

The yellow light burned Sonic's fur, and when he fell backward there was no parent there to catch his fall: he was alone.

Sonic panicked. And in that panic, he ran. And he ran. And he _ran_.

And he closed his eyes.

V.

This time he hit the ground long before he opened his eyes.

Thunder sounded all around him. The floor beneath him was dirty: cobbled steps overrun with green mold and dust. He got to his knees, and when he looked around his head spun. The horizon— stretched to infinity all around him— was nothing but an impossible swirl of dark purple hues glittering with black stars, like some kind of cosmic nebula viewed through a broken telescope, as seen through a thunderstorm.

While on a ton of LSD.

Sonic walked the path before him slowly, involuntarily, dread filling his heart with every step. Miserable scrub dotted the ground around him, and terrible shadows loomed there. They were crows, but of nightmarish proportions, each as large as a mammoth. They pecked at the ground, milling, ignoring the hedgehog, except for the occasional disinterested glance in his direction. Each of their eyes was not an eye: they were stones. And those stones had a terrible, familiar shape to them.

He stumbled along the ruined cobbled steps. Soon he passed a strange stone obelisk rising from the ground beside the road. Flashes of lightning from the vortex around him illuminated the thing, showing its shoddy, blemished surface. The stone looked like it had been given an acid bath for a year or two. If there was anything ever carved in that stone it was long-since lost to the corrosion. In fact, there was only one thing of interest about that stone: an object dangled around the top of the thing, held fast by a loop of white string.

It was a little macaroni sculpture: roughly a diamond, made with all the care a six-year-old could give it.

Further down the road there was another stone obelisk, this one identical to the first, with the exception that there was no macaroni sculpture decorating the top.

Instead, a golden cat-claw brooch was set into the middle of the stone, fixed into it with a large nail.

Finally, near the end of the ruined road, Sonic reached a third obelisk. This one had no object dangling from it, or nailed to it. Instead there was something in front of the thing: it was a sword, rammed into the ground, with only its very familiar hilt and a small part of the blade visible.

A cold wind began blowing across the wasteland, and it ruffled Sonic's quills. He didn't even appear to notice. The hedgehog slowly sank to his knees, staring at the sword, and after a minute he looked up at the obelisk before it. A few vigorous flashes of lightning exposed writing scrawled along the stone. It was a single word, and it looked like it had been written with a finger dipped in black ink:

"Why?"

Sonic bowed his head, and it gently touched the hilt of the sword in the ground.

He didn't know how long he stayed that way, leaning down over that sword, motionless. But soon he heard a terrible shuffling all around him, and when he looked up he was face-to-face with those hideous, massive crows. They milled around him, staring down at him with their glowing stone eyes. One of them gripped his shoulder with its huge beak, and Sonic broke free by bashing its skull with his free hand. But as he struggled under those terrible demons he felt his strength fail, and more than that: his limbs seemed to shrivel, and his trunk shrank. Soon his was snared by his bare shoulders in a pair of crow beaks, and his struggles were futile: he had the body of a small juvenile. With a helpless scream he was taken up into the air, and then the landscape changed.

The featureless plain turned into jagged rocks, and then sweeping canyons. The darkness deepened, and that faint purple hue on the horizon turned into a stream of cold fire, what Sonic could only describe as 'sizzling ice'. Sonic's lips twitched, and his head swam; the air tasted green.

He retched, his body making violent spasms, but nothing escaped his stomach. When the massive crows dumped him on a small precipice jutting from the rocks he was a quivering wreck. He could smell fire, but his limbs felt like they were trapped in ice.

Before him a crack in the rock exposed the serpentine path of a cave, all shrouded in darkness. Soon that changed. Green fire curled along the fringes of the cavern, and a sickly blue light burned from its center, seemingly as deep as the ocean. But then, all at once, that light blossomed, and when it did Sonic found himself off his feet, dangling through the air like a marionette, helplessly flailing his juvenile limbs.

"W— wh— whhhhhh—"

It was not a voice. That wasn't the right word. It was only something _like _a voice, but terrible in its lack of comprehension. There was something artificial to it that made it uncomfortable, but then there was also something organic beneath it all.

And _that _was what made it truly horrifying.

"_Whhhhhhhhhyyyyyy..._"

Sonic's helpless struggles intensified as he was brought closer to that inferno burning in the cave. He could feel the whiskers on his face singe as he drew near. He couldn't tell if it was from heat, or cold. When he looked inside that cave, and when that horrible thing behind the swirling colors spoke, Sonic could see every word:

"Why... whhhyyy... my... mmmyyyy..."

Pressure suddenly came down all along Sonic's body; he felt himself crush beneath it: skull, chest, pelvis, and legs. Bones broke apart; flesh crumpled like paper; organs squished apart like squeezed grapes:

"_Mmmmmmyyyyyy__** RAINBOOOOOOOOWWW!**_"

And then, behind all the swirling colors, and beyond the burning fire, he could see only one other thing: it was another obelisk, made of stacked rocks and not stone, a might pile set one atop the other, stretching up beyond the hedgehog's ability to see it, out into the infinite horizon: it was a mighty, sprawling cairn.

And, after that, he felt nothing at all.


	27. Broken Pedestal

"Broken Pedestal"

I.

Darkness ruled the medical tent. Only near its center, surrounding the bed holding its lone occupant, was there a floodlight bathing the area in harsh white color. Sonic lay on his back in that bed, his body twitching a bit, and his eyes tightly shut, as if scrunched in pain.

"No." Thadesch anticipated Asher's question. "He's still totally out. Or at least he _should _be. Tails has been keeping him under with a particularly strong sedative cocktail these past days. Sonic should be in a coma; we don't know why his body's doing all that twitching."

The toad and cottontail stood side-by-side, looking over the hedgehog's body. They were otherwise alone in the quiet tent. From the waist-down Sonic was encased in a complicated-looking sarcophagus. The thing made strange noises, and plastic tubes along its frame shuttled different liquids all about the device.

"What's the prognosis?" Asher asked.

Thadesch shrugged:

"Couldn't get that much out of Tails while he was working. But by your father's Gods you should've seen that kit go. He was like a little ball of lightning. And the _really _odd thing, if you can believe it, is that there was a little more to it than usual."

Asher circled Sonic's unconscious body. He looked under the bed, briefly, and caught sight of one of the kit's two tails twitching about erratically from under the sheet. Tails had curled up to sleep there after working on the hedgehog, and given the amount of time he'd spent operating, he'd likely be out for the better part of a day.

"'More'?"

"Well, only that Tails seemed...'concerned'. Panicked, even. I've seen him work on more injured animals than Sonic and never even change his facial expression. Here, he looked about ready to cry. Honestly I didn't even know he was capable of crying."

"Tails has emotions like anyone else," Asher said. "He only really shows them for his friends, I suppose."

Thadesch smirked and crossed his flabby arms:

"I don't recall a look of concern on his face when he splintered up _your_ busted rib..."

"I'm not his friend," Asher responded.

"'Cause you're too much of a sourpuss, maybe?" Thadesch chuckled.

"I'm a tribal leader," Asher grumbled. "So I don't have 'friends'. I have _assets_, and I have _liabilities_. That's it." The cottontail stopped by Sonic's bedside; a small table rested there, and it was covered with bloody surgical equipment and Sonic's tattered clothing. On top of all that was Sonic's chaos emerald, propped up on its coiled chain. The cottontail leaned down and squinted at it: he could barely see a dull yellow color swirling deep inside it.

"Hmmm..."

Asher looked at Sonic, who still twitched and groaned, and then the cottontail took up the chaos emerald in his hand and took a few steps back from Sonic's bed. The color in the gem quickly died out, and then Sonic's body stopped twitching. That pained look on his face slowly fell away, and he groaned once, weakly, before growing quiet.

"Interesting," Asher mumbled.

Thadesch lumbered over to Asher's side, and he motioned to the unconscious hedgehog:

"Tell me this, Asher: which do you think Sonic is, hmm?"

Asher, still looking into the facets of the now-dead emerald, was pulled from his thoughts:

"What?"

"Sonic," Thadesch said. "Tell me what you think Sonic the hedgehog _really _is, when push comes to shove? Is he an asset, or is he a liability?"

Asher bobbled the emerald, shaking his head dismissively.

"Sonic is... _Sonic_," Asher grumbled. "He's free to be whatever he wants to be, and he chooses to be neither."

"Ah, but— respectfully— he _chooses_," Thadesch held up a finger, "because he has the _power_ to choose. And now?" The toad gently tapped a large surgical tray near the base of Sonic's bed; the hedgehog's busted leg braces lay in a twisted mess, the once sleek metal now caked with dried blood, looking more like neglected, rusting junk than the high-tech wonder it was. The toad's flabby fingers rested on one of the dull, lifeless QEDs set into the frame.

"What're you getting at, Thadesch?"

"I'm getting at the fact that there are four whole QEDs in Sonic's braces, and they could be powerfully useful to us moving forward. Hell, just think of the medical equipment Tails could build out of these things."

"That's _Sonic's _property," Asher grumbled. "He'd be a bit pissed if he woke up without them."

Thadesch rolled his eyes, moving to the head of Sonic's bed. He pointed down at the hedgehog:

"Asher: whether Sonic is 'pissed', or not, won't really matter when he doesn't _have_ those QEDs to give him his little superpowers. If he could've taken down an army before, well, now he's not even a match for one animal carrying a gun. A _rookie _animal, at that."

The cottontail grit his teeth; he looked away, setting Sonic's chaos emerald down on an empty bed. Thadesch pressed his point:

"Respectfully: I know that you two were childhood friends—"

Asher glared up at the toad, his brown eyes severe.

"Relax," the toad held up his hands. "That is my job, remember?"

"Mmm." The cottontail grunted. "So, if I've got all this straight: not only do you want me to depower a creature that has single-handedly kept us safe from a Delta Tribe invasion for these past few months— albeit indirectly, and not entirely of his own volition— but you also want me to betray the trust of one of my oldest, closest friends—"

"I am sorry," Thadesch said, "I must have misheard you. You said that you were a tribal leader, didn't you? And that you have no friends, isn't that right?"

Asher wrinkled his nose; he crossed his arms, scowling:

"Do _not _throw my words back at me like that, spymaster!"

"Why not? It's my most potent weapon. Uh, respectfully..."

For a moment Asher's sneer almost looked as dark as Fionnghal's. This was not a particularly good thing, from Thadesch's point of view. The toad drew a long breath, and he tapped Sonic's skull a few times as he spoke:

"You know, I'm almost afraid Sonic will up and hop right off this table, then somehow jam those braces back on, and just go for my throat for even _suggesting_ anything like this—"

"Sonic doesn't kill, Thadesch. Youknow that—"

"Mmm. That's true. But I also know that he's unpredictable. Asher, you of all people know the hostility he bears toward what you represent. That's all driven by deep wounds he carries. I know about them, Asher. _All_ of them. You do, too. And you also know that this history makes Sonic a wild card, and in my opinion he's a wild card that shouldn't be allowed back into the deck—"

"You think he'd betray us?" Asher chuckled, shaking his head. "What: you think he'll eventually go and join the _Delts_?"

"I think that Sonic's goals are not the same as yours. Not even close. And, respectfully—"

"To save time, let's just keep all these 'respectfullies' running, shall we? When a subordinate has to use that many 'respectfullies' in a conversation it's pretty clear there isn't a lot of 'respect' to be given in the first place—"

"Technically I'm not your subordinate. I'm a contract employee, and the terms of my contract are specific. They're not even supposed to include advice, just information—"

"Coulda fooled me—"

"Sometimes it's hard to say where data collection ends and interpretation begins. I will say this, Asher: given his history, I think that Sonic wouldn't be too upset to see both Delta Tribe and Theta Tribe burn— in fact, that might even put a smile on his face— and I also think that you're loathe to accept that fact because your relationship with Sonic is clouding your judgment."

Asher's dark scowl dropped away. He looked down at Sonic, and his big brown eyes were ineffable. After a few seconds, however, his gaze was more combative, and he looked back up at the toad with a renewed sneer:

"Tell me this, spymaster: have you spoken to your _real _employer about all this? What's Fionnghal got to say about your concerns?"

"Obviously I haven't said a thing to her—"

"That's funny. I mean she _is _your real employer, isn't she? At least you always share your information with her first, before it gets around to me. _If _it ever gets around to me. So why're you wasting your time talking to me, hmm?"

"If your relationship with Sonic clouds your judgment, Asher, then you know that Fionnghal's relationship with him _blinds _hers."

Asher scoffed, facing the tent entrance. Thadesch moved closer to him:

"It isn't a particularly pleasant decision to make, I know. But if you're ever actually planning on restoring the Shope dynasty— if you ever want to _be _a king, Asher— well, eventually you'll have to make difficult decisions like this one. You might consider what's best for the _tribe_..."

"The greater good, you mean? Because the greater good prevails over all other concerns, doesn't it?"

"That's a suitable method for ruling, I suppose."

Asher pulled a small trinket from his vest pocket: it was that small, broken crystal orb saved from the _Filigree _compound after the invasion. He ran his fingers along the busted edge of the thing. The jagged edges dug into his fingers, drawing a small cut in one of them, but he didn't appear to feel the pain. Instead he furrowed his brow, and then he looked out into the night sky beyond the tent flap:

"'A ruler must sacrifice all things for the greater good'. My father thought so..."

Thadesch prepared to sweeten his position with more arguments, but Asher abruptly cut him off:

"You've given me your information, spymaster. Now your leave this decision to you superiors—"

"With pleasure. But you know what Fionnghal will say, if you give her an opportunity to weigh in. All I will say is this: it might be time for you to start acting a little less like a bureaucratic delegate, and a littlemore like a king."

Asher looked over his shoulder at the toad, and again his eyes were pensive.

"Unless you want to be called _your_ _highness_ forever," Thadesch said.

The cottontail again scrunched his eyes. He crossed his arms and looked away:

"From you I'd settle for _sir_. We're done here, toad."

II.

Thadesch watched Asher trundle off from the medical tent. Evening fireflies lit an impromptu path for the cottontail, and as he disappeared into the twilight darkness, circling around a particularly large oak tree, Thadesch shook his head. The toad lingered at the tent, resting against a support beam at the entrance and filling his pipe. He started to light up, but then his body took a violent little spin. The pipe fell out of his hands as he crashed into the side of the tent, bouncing right off the springy surface. When he careened forward his momentum was stopped by a strong paw.

Fionnghal emerged from the shadows, and before the toad could speak there was a long serrated dagger at his fat throat.

"This is a no smoking area," the rat snarled.

"Point taken," Thadesch gasped.

Fionnghal sank the knife down closer against his throat. The rat's blue eyes were cold as sea ice:

"Not... quite... _yet_..."

"So, I trust you heard all that in there—"

"Most of it," she snarled. "Remember, I'm only _blind_, not deaf."

"Do I get any last words, perhaps?"

"If you're quick."

Thadesch calmly pulled his throat back from the blade, and he stood with casual posture. Only his blinking eyes betrayed any hint of fear.

"That was all my own idea back there, my dear. Asher had no thoughts on the matter, and I do not believe that he will take my advice seriously."

Fionnghal tilted her head in the other direction:

"Why would you tell me that?"

"Despite being the mercenary that I am, I actually do not wish to drive a further wedge between the two of you—"

"What the hell did you think you were doing in there?"

"Looking out for the best interests of your organization—"

"Try leaving that to _us_!"

"—and everything I said back there I said with sincerity."

"Including the fact that you think I'm a bad leader?"

Thadesch looked to one side; this time he blinked with confusion instead of fear.

"That I _don't_ remember saying—"

"Sure you did. Thinking that I'd put personal concerns above the wellbeing of our civvies? What do you call that?"

"The truth, I believe."

Thadesch grimaced as the rat dug her hand tighter against his chest.

"That doesn't mean you're a bad leader, Fionnghal. It only means that you're not a machine—"

The toad caught his tongue when the rat's knife again sank closer to his throat:

"I'll tell you what I am, you sniveling toad! I'm one of the leaders of this group, and you will _not _keep me in the dark!"

"Someone might call that position hypocritical, given your handling of M'quelo's treachery—"

"And would _you_?"

The toad drew a breath, and he shook his head gently.

"It's not so horrible a thing, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things. Killing me might not be, either—"

"But then we've _both _done some 'horrible' things in our time, haven't we, Thadesch?"

For the first time the toad broke his gaze with Fionnghal, staring down at her vest instead of her eyes.

"That's true. Maybe one of my only regrets, my dear, is that I can never fully atone for my own sins. But it doesn't matter, I suppose. I am dead, after all, aren't I? You would call this a 'betrayal', wouldn't you? One that you can't abide. I suppose the terms of my contract are clear on this point..."

Fionnghal's cold scowl deepened. She leaned in closer to him, putting her mouth near his ear:

"Do we call this a 'breech', then, Thadesch?"

She tightened her grip on the knife against his throat.

The toad didn't answer. For a while they both merely stood there, eyes locked, when suddenly a small, uncertain voice warbled in the darkness:

"M— Miss— Mistress?"

Both rat and toad looked to the side: Myrtle stood about ten feet away from the pair, bathed in the light of fireflies, holding a covered tray in two trembling paws. Quinn stood beside her, less nervous, but rather intrigued. His jaw moved about as he chewed on a chunk of sweet roll. While Myrtle's lips trembled uncertainly and she shuffled her feet indecisively, Quinn didn't appear ready to intervene at all.

"I... have Tails' meal, here..."

Again Fionnghal and Thadesch looked at each other. After a few seconds Fionnghal finally returned Myrtle's gaze. The sugar glider again tried stammering out some words:

"Is it... is it okay to bring his meal to him? Surely you're not, um, you're not planning on making any _more_ work for the poor little dear tonight? Are you?"

Fionnghal glared at Thadesch:

"No, Myrtle: of course not."

Fionnghal pushed away from the toad. She pointed her dagger at the toad, wagging it back and forth to enunciate her whispered words:

"Thadesch: if you ever go behind my back like that again, for _any _reason, our little 'arrangement' will come to an end."

Thadesch licked his lips nervously. He shot Myrtle a brief glance, and the young sugar glider only stared at the pair with confusion.

"Do you hear me, Thadesch?" Fionnghal gripped his chin, forcing his face to meet hers. "If you do that again, then I will personally _terminate _our little 'arrangement'. Is that absolutely clear, spymaster?"

Thadesch lowered his head, closing his eyes. He nodded:

"Crystal clear," he mumbled.

"Then get the hell out of here," she pointed toward the camp proper with her dagger. "And get out there and do your job!"

Thadesch slunk off from the medical tent, and Myrtle braved the steps between the rat and tent entrance on tiptoes, moving behind Fionnghal's back, trying as best as she could to be silent. She wasn't.

"Myrtle," Fionnghal said. She didn't turn to face the sugar glider.

"Uh, yes, Mistress. I'm so very sorry to— to intrude—"

The rat faced the glider, holding up a finger to shush her:

"_I'm_ sorry," she said, "that I had to do all that in front of you. I prefer to enforce discipline in private."

Myrtle nodded meekly, and then quickly disappeared into the medical tent. Quinn walked up to Fionnghal's side, still munching on the remains of his roll:

"So now 'enforcing discipline' includes shoving knives into people's throats?"

"That was a bluff," Fionnghal growled. "I wasn't actually going to kill Thadesch—"

"You wanted to," Quinn said.

Fionnghal looked down at the boy and scoffed, crossing her arms.

"You can read minds now, Quinn?"

The boy shook his head, nonchalantly finishing his last bite of roll:

"Nope. Seen you kill, though. And that's what you look like. Your face, I mean. It gets all 'weird' and trance-ish, like maybe you're not at the place that you look like you are at the time, you know? Kinda like you're somewhere else, I mean. Not really unfocused, that's not what I mean. Maybe _too _focused. I dunno. But that's what you look like when you kill."

This gave the rat pause. Fionnghal drew a short breath, and then she gave her retort:

"No, it isn't."

She turned to walk away, but Quinn had more to say:

"He's your brother, isn't he?"

She stopped, not turning to face the boy. Only the soft sound of crickets in the trees disturbed that tranquil woodland night all around them.

"Sonic, I mean..."

Fionnghal shook her head:

"Of course not. That's ridiculous. Sonic was an only child, and he was born to _two_ hedgehogs; I never even knew my parents. I already told you that, Quinn. So... no, we're not siblings—"

"Yeah. You're not related. But you still _are _brother and sister, aren't you? I once asked Sonic if he had any siblings. All he said was that he was his parents' 'only child'. That's the kind of answer you give someone when you don't really wanna give an answer. And you once told me you had a brother, but that he disowned you. I'm pretty sure it was him; you were talking about Sonic, weren't you?"

Fionnghal looked over her shoulder at the boy, keeping her face out of the harsh floodlights:

"That's your only evidence, huh?"

Quinn shrugged:

"There's only one other thing, I guess."

"And that is?"

"Both of you are willing to seriously kick in teeth to save each other, at the drop of a hat."

Fionnghal quickly faced forward again.

"I mean," Quinn shrugged, absently training one shoe across the dirt, making small shapes as he spoke, "I don't have any memories to go on, but from what I can tell, if _I _had a brother or sister, then I would do anything to keep them safe. Then again, I don't remember my brothers or sisters, if they ever existed. Maybe they were real jerks. Don't know if that would matter. I mean, clearly it _doesn't_, with the way you stood up for Sonic—"

"It was a juvenile thing." Fionnghal crossed her arms and shook her head. "After his parents died Sonic and I just kinda decided that... well— and it was just the way juveniles think— that we could be each other's brother and sister. It was really more like a game—"

"Bullshit," Quinn casually licked his fingers, slurping up stray chunks of frosted icing off the digits.

The rat looked down at the boy, scowling.

"What?" He asked. "_I _don't have to start saying 'respectfully', too, do I?"

"Sonic and I are just—"

"The only family either of you has left in the world," Quinn interrupted. "When push comes to shove, you treat each other like it. Now I'm guessing that Sonic 'disowned' you after the Master Emerald blew up and his girlfriend died. You stayed with the Omega Tribe, right, and he didn't? "

"That's the skinny of it. So, you see, we're _not _really even siblings—"

Quinn held up a stern finger as he finished licking off icing from his other hand. It was enough to still Fionnghal's tongue. If nothing else the sheer audacity of the gesture was more than enough to stun her into silence. Anyone else would've been too afraid to do something like that, likely for fear of being cut in half. Quinn was either confident that he had a free pass to do this (and given their history together, he pretty much did) or else he didn't really care. When he finished lapping up the frosting he spoke again:

"Yeah, that's true. He 'disowned' you after you 'betrayed' _him_ by staying with the tribe that 'killed' his girlfriend, and you're also pissed 'cause he 'turned his back' on everything he ever knew to go off and become a smelly loner, hermit-type guy. I've got all that just about right, don't I?"

Fionnghal didn't answer. The look on her face was answer enough.

"All those things are pretty unforgivable," Quinn said.

"Yeah, so there you go."

"Except between family, I guess," Quinn said. "I'd assume family could forgive anything. I wouldn't know, of course. I can't remember mine, or how it felt to have one." The boy stared at the dirt, still playing at it with one shoe. He looked up at Fionnghal briefly: "But can you tell me one thing, Fionnghal: does it feel nice?"

Fionnghal crossed her arms, meeting the boy's gaze:

"Having a family, you mean?"

Quinn nodded.

The rat shrugged, grunting:

"Yeah. It does." She looked at the medical tent entrance before quickly looking away, brushing a bit of stray fur from her face. "I mean it _did_. Whatever. You know what I mean..."

"Thadesch was threatening all that back there, wasn't he? Your family?"

"What he was doing is more complicated than that," the rat admitted.

"But, in a word?"

The rat grudgingly nodded:

"In a word? Yeah. He was threatening my family."

Quinn considered this, and then he shrugged nonchalantly:

"Why didn't you just kill him, then? Best way to let people know you won't tolerate someone messing around on you, like that."

"Slit his throat, you mean? Is that what you'd have done?"

Quinn put his one thumb to his neck and made a curt motion, nodding without expression.

Fionnghal _did_ have an expression: amusement. She couldn't help but smirk.

"You've been getting kinda dark lately, haven't you, Quinn?"

"Dark? Well, practical. Whatever."

Fionnghal sighed, shaking her head:

"Right. _Whatever_. Well, you go in and check on those two; make sure Tails isn't lying on one of his scalpels again. That kit can sleep through anything..."

"I'm not here to see Sonic or Tails."

"What: you just wanted to see me kill someone?"

Quinn crossed his arms and shrugged:

"I figure that if I gotta live on Mobius, I better learn to survive from the best."

Fionnghal assessed the boy, noting his expressionless face. His words were a little too creepy for her to ignore:

"You got anything on your mind, Quinn?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I asked you first," Fionnghal wagged one finger.

"When did you make your first kill?"

The rat's eyes widened a bit, but she quickly recovered, looking off to one side.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Quinn said. "Or you can lie, I guess, if the answer bothers you—"

"No. It doesn't. Of course not." The rat shook her head. "My species are _born_ killers. You know that, so of course I don't mind talking about it. But it's not really the kind of thing you talk about around the average juvenile..."

"I'm not your 'average' juvenile," Quinn said.

Fionnghal smiled gently. She leaned against a nearby post, making the light at its top shudder a little bit.

"Forget it," Quinn waved a hand and made for the medical tent.

"I was about your age," Fionnghal said. "A little younger, maybe. Not by much, though."

The boy stopped walking and looked back at her.

"Really?"

Fionnghal nodded.

"Was that usual?"

She shrugged and gave another nod.

"More or less. Most of the girls in our crèche completed their first solo mission right before puberty. I assisted on about half a dozen other girls' missions before I was given my own."

Quinn approached the rat; his eyes were cold and serious:

"What'd it feel like?" He asked. "The first time?"

The rat scratched the back of her head and looked down at her feet:

"I, uh, don't really remember much of the feeling, actually. It wasn't a clean kill; I hesitated, and..." She scoffed and shook her head. "And it got 'complicated'. My target was a warlord who lived out west of Sulumac'Dun, where the Greater Wastes lie, today. He was stirring up all sorts of trouble: raiding supply routes into and out of the city and putting the local populace under his thumb. The King's emissaries tried to negotiate with him, but they didn't get anywhere, so he authorized the matrons to send in one of their rats. I went in undercover as a new servant girl at the warlord's compound. It took me days to smuggle my blade into his main chambers, and nearly a week to get myself alone with him, in there."

Fionnghal moved away from the light post and crossed her arms:

"I hesitated when I had the chance. The warlord managed to disarm me— nearly broke my arm doing it— and he started tossing me around his chamber, throwing me into walls, into tables..." the rat put a paw to her upper chest and absently massaged a spot between her collarbones, as if rubbing an old wound. "Into _mirrors_," she grumbled. "And the mirrors kinda hurt..."

"How'd you get out of it?" Quinn asked.

"He pressed me down against a table, got on top of me and buried my face against the wood grain. There was a broken bottle on the table, right in front of my face, and I managed to..."

Fionnghal drew a breath and sighed.

"It wasn't a clean kill. It was a damn _mess_, in fact. But it taught me a lesson, and after that I never hesitated again." Fionnghal looked over at the boy and smiled gently. "Until I met _you_, I guess."

"Why'd you hesitate? With the warlord, I mean? Were you afraid?"

Fionnghal's lips started retracting with a reflexive snarl, but she stilled the motion. She hesitated before answering, but then gently nodded her head.

"Nervous, mostly. But afraid? Yeah, a little bit. You can't _not _be, in a situation like that."

Quinn sat down on a stump, crossing his legs and balancing himself like a pint-sized yogi.

"_I _hesitated," he said. "Back in Cake Rim, when I had a chance to kill the Dame Commander with my slingshot. I was a little bit afraid then, too."

"It's natural—"

"That's not why I hesitated, though."

Fionnghal tilted her head:

"Why, then?"

The boy rested his fists on his knees; he slowly balled them, and he stared at the dirt beneath him:

"I didn't shoot right away 'cause I... 'cause I was _enjoying _the feeling too much." Quinn met Fionnghal's eyes. "That smug look on the Dame's face, the way she thought I'd never shoot her. I was— I was _enjoying _the idea that I was about to put a hole in her chest, and I kept thinking about the look that'd be on her face when I finally took the shot. It felt good, Fionnghal, knowing that I was about to pay her back for hurting Myrtle, and for what she did to Davidinia, and... and for everything else, I guess."

Fionnghal met the boy's eyes. She gave a curt nod, and then sighed.

"That's understandable," she whispered.

"You told me that your species is really war-like and aggressive, right?"

The rat nodded.

"And that you all enjoy killing?"

"It's something that, uh, gets easier. Over _time_, I mean."

"Maybe," Quinn said, "humans are more like your species than we are anything else."

The rat crossed her arms:

"You're not like me, Quinn. And you don't want to be, either."

"There are worse things to be," the boy said. "At least you get results." Quinn planted his feet on the ground and leaned forward; his hazel eyes burned under the cold white floodlights above them. "One thing's for sure, Fionnghal: the next time I have a chance to kill the Dame Commander, or anyone else who tries hurting my friends, I _won't _hesitate."

The rat sighed and got on one knee, at eye-level with the boy:

"Don't try using me as a role-model, Quinn. I mean it. I know you admire Sonic, and you should; he's worth ten of me."

"But he's hurt now," Quinn said. "And he can't fight. And because he wouldn't take out the trash when he had the chance, everyone's in danger."

The rat said nothing to this, but her facial expression betrayed her thoughts.

"You agree with me," Quinn said. "I can see that."

She nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I do. But that doesn't necessarily make me right, Quinn. It doesn't make _you _right, either."

Footsteps bounded up the dirt path; Catchie came under the floodlights. The raccoon dog skidded to a halt about ten feet away from the pair and nodded at Fionnghal:

"Mistress," she said.

"Go ahead." Fionnghal got to her feet.

"Asher and Chief Brady are looking for you; they're monitoring some kind of activity on the Thallomoor perimeter."

"Is it troop movement? _Delts_?"

Catchie shook her head:

"They don't think so; it's something smaller than an invasion force. Probably. _Maybe_. Whatever it is, it'll be on our doorstep within the hour."

Fionnghal motioned for Catchie to lead on, and the rat began walking off. She turned and looked back at Quinn, who absently turned his metal slingshot over in his hands while staring at the glowing white QED at its junction.

"Quinn," she called.

The boy looked up at her.

"He's worth a _thousand _of me. Keep that in mind, okay?"

The boy appeared unconvinced, and he returned to musing over his weapon. Fionnghal thought to say more, but she didn't know what she could say, really. She did look back at the medical tent briefly, and when she faced Catchie again she motioned for the raccoon dog to go ahead of her:

"I'll be at the command tent in a few minutes, alright?"

She'd need to make a brief detour, first.

III.

She found Spindletop in her tent. The cheetah sat bunched up against the central tent pole, a large bottle of liquid between her legs. She looked like she was playing with a mote of dust caught in the fur between her eyes, and only when Fionnghal stood over her did she acknowledge the rat.

"Good morning, Mistress!" She beamed.

Fionnghal crossed her arms.

"It's not even midnight."

"Oh," the cheetah looked around her tent (as if that'd tell her anything about the time of day) and she blinked in confusion. "Well, it'll probably _be _a good morning, when it _is_ a good morning..."

"I need to ask you to do some work for me," Fionnghal said. "It's important."

"You want a working toilet in your tent?" The cheetah laughed, taking a big swig from her bottle. "I could do it if you want; I could run the pipes way out behind camp, have 'em discharge right into the Momus Trough. Whaddya think the Traitor would say about that, huh?"

Fionnghal smirked.

"She's nothing but a steaming pile of waste, as it is; she's probably used to the smell, by now..." The rat's face became more serious. "But what I need to ask of you doesn't involve plumbing, Spindletop. It involves metalwork..."

The cheetah looked down at Fionnghal's belt; _Curtainrod _dangled at her side, its handle still tangled up from the sword's run-in with the Frostblessor Chaos Emerald. Spindletop sat up, bunching her legs against her midsection and gripping her bottle tight. Her yellow eyes widened and she looked away.

"No," Fionnghal wagged her finger. "Not _that_. I wouldn't ask you to do that. Okay?"

Slowly Spindletop looked back up at the rat, her countenance now more like a wounded child than an adult cheetah.

"_Okay_?" The rat repeated herself.

Spindletop slowly nodded.

"Okay."

Fionnghal got to her knee and put one hand on the cheetah's shoulder:

"I do want to ask you to repair something, though, and I'm not sure if you'd be willing to do it, or not. You know how I use _Curtainrod_, right?"

The cheetah nodded.

"And do you know how Sonic uses his leg braces?"

Again Spindletop nodded.

"If you see any difference between how Sonic and I use our weapons, Spindletop, then I want you to at least consider helping to fix his." The rat got to her feet. "But I won't order you to do anything, alright? And if you don't want to do it then I promise it won't have _any_ impact on, well..." Fionnghal gently tapped Spindletop's large earthenware jug, letting the liquid inside slosh about. "It won't have any impact on our arrangement. Alright?"

The cheetah avoided Fionnghal's gaze, and she only absently nodded.

The rat made for the tent flap.

"They're not a weapon," Spindletop said.

"What?"

"Sonic's braces: they're not a weapon. They're a _scalpel_."

The rat looked back at Spindletop, and the cheetah stared at Fionnghal's feet as she spoke:

"He's not like either of us, Fionnghal. He's not a killer. And those braces: they're not a weapon," she said. "I'll do what you want me to do for him."

The rat nodded.

"Thanks," she said. She lingered at the tent flap, trying to find the right words:

"Listen, Spindletop: you and I are not—"

"The same?" The cheetah smiled wanly, drawing a sleepy breath and letting a yawn escape her mouth. "Just 'cause our body counts aren't the same?" She shook her head and plopped over onto her side, curling up in a ball. "Don't feel bad, Fionnghal: you'll probably overtake my number. Someday, at least..."

Spindletop returned her attention to that stray mote of dust between her eyes, lazily batting at it. Fionnghal left the cheetah like that and ducked into her own tent on her way to meet Asher and Brady. Fringe was fast asleep in a cot near the corner, still enjoying her 'payment' for services rendered. Fionnghal probably wouldn't get the luxury of actually _using_ her own tent any time in the near future; she had to settle for using it as a place to store her extra gear.

Fionnghal suited up in her combat vest and metal-lined boots. If there was going to be any trouble, she'd best be suitably dressed for it. She zipped up the tight vest and ran one paw down her stomach, smoothing out the creases.

A voice sounded from one of the shadowy corners of the tent:

"It's very slimming, isn't it?"

Instantly Fionnghal dropped to one knee and drew a pistol. She pointed it at the darkness, snarling, and challenged the speaker:

"Who's there?"

Slowly a figure emerged from the darkness; brilliant white fur peeked out of the edges of a woodland green poncho. Red eyes blazed under the hood.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Fionnghal growled.

"Hello to you, too, little one."

"I should put a bullet in your skull right now!"

"I wouldn't," Perle said. "And I could give you a reason not to."

"What reason could you possibly give to change my mind?"

The pink-eyed white rat dropped her hood, allowing her head to come into view. A mischievous smirk beamed on her face.

"I could tell you that I have two of my troops stalking everyone's favorite cottontail right now, and that they have him in their sights. I could _also _tell you that, if I don't make it out of your camp alive and well, they might just shoot Asher dead."

One of Fionnghal's ears twitched; her scowl deepened.

"Yes. I _could_ tell you that." Perle said. "All I _will _tell you is this: each and every animal in my little band of brigands is a crack shot. And they rarely miss..."

"You're lying—"

"I never lie, Fionnghal." Perle shook her head. "Not _ever_. I'm very careful not to. But even if I am lying you have to consider whether it's an acceptable risk."

The rat's scowl fell away; she snorted through her nose.

"I know you're willing to throw your own life away without too much fuss," Perle said. "Are you willing to do the same with Asher's?"

Fionnghal grudgingly lowered her weapon, again huffing:

"If you harm Asher—"

"I would never even think of hurting poor Asher," Perle smirked. The rat threw off her poncho and set it down next to Fringe.

"Don't wake her," Fionnghal warned.

Perle shook her head:

"She just had a special little snack; it should keep her under for hours."

Fionnghal's blue eyes blazed. She let loose a small snarl:

"What did you do?"

Perle waved a paw in the air:

"Relax: it's nothing harmful. I wouldn't go out of my way to harm a chaffinch, Fionnghal. So rare to see one, nowadays, anyway..." The rat absently ran a paw along Fringe's brilliant plumage, even as the bird made a loud snort in her sleep. "It'd be like breaking a stained-glass window. Of a _unicorn_."

"Are you responsible for triggering our proximity alarms?"

"I have no knowledge of that," Perle said. "I'm not here to invade your camp. Not today, at least." She pulled a small burlap pouch from her vest and tossed it on the ground between them.

"What's that?" Fionnghal asked.

"Sonic the hedgehog is injured, is he not?"

Fionnghal said nothing, but she needn't have.

"There's no need to be coy; I know he is," Perle motioned to the small bag. "His wounds are severe—"

"He's being treated, and he's getting better—"

"I don't doubt the competence of your juvenile fox doctor. But that salve will aid whatever treatment Sonic is receiving; it will accelerate his healing."

Fionnghal looked at the sack with skepticism.

"You wonder why I would offer this?" Perle guessed.

"I wonder why you do _anything _you do," Fionnghal shook her head.

"I don't mind telling you," Perle smiled. "It can be argued that Sonic the hedgehog is as much a liability to your tribe as he is an asset. Either way, he's certainly a distraction. If I were to decide to wipe out your tribe someday then Sonic might prove troublesome, but in the long run it's more rewarding for me to keep you alive. And, one could say, things become much easier for _me_ if you and Asher are too distracted dealing with the Speedster to keep your eyes on me."

Fionnghal said nothing to this; she stared at the pouch with marked misgivings.

"Run the salve through any analyzer you want," Perle said. "It'll tell you that it's not harmful."

Perle retrieved her poncho from Fringe's bed and slung it over her back, preparing to leave.

"You taunt me too much, Perle. You know that?"

"I thought that was one of my more endearing qualities."

"If you think Sonic getting better will make it easier for you to meddle with us, then the right course of action for me is _not_ to give him the salve."

Perle smiled:

"Yes. It would be, wouldn't it?" She spread her paws, grin spreading. "So, then obviously you _won't_, will you?"

Fionnghal tried putting up her best poker face, but all the emotional strains on her of late had seen that ability crumble; just as her face did in her conversation with Quinn, it betrayed her feelings.

"Oh, it's not that simple, is it?" Perle nodded.

"You already knew that, did you?"

Perle nodded.

"It didn't take too much surveillance. And it's very noticeable, the way brothers and sisters act around one another."

Fionnghal snarled and turned away from the other rat, arms crossed:

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" She shook her head. "Just get out of here. _Now_."

"May I ask you a personal question, before I leave?"

"Would it stop you if I said 'no'?"

"Have you prayed to They Who Bring Order to Chaos since Sonic's injury?"

"I told you: I don't believe in the Emerald Makers. Or at least I don't believe they're interested in listening to me."

"That is not what I asked, Fionnghal."

The rat looked over her shoulder at Perle, lips scrunched, but this softened her up a bit:

"I did. It made me feel like a juvie, again. The last time I prayed to them was a _very _long time ago."

"Like a juvenile, hmm? Did it make you feel like you _didn't_ have control?"

Fionnghal nodded.

"I would very humbly suggest, little one, that the point where we realize we're not fully in control of all things is a point where we can learn to exert the most control over the things we can. That can be a fulfilling thought."

Fionnghal's face slowly devolved into a sneer, and her blue eyes roiled:

"Don't you dare tell me about trying to 'take control' of things, Traitor! I know what that phrase means to _you_—"

"You certainly think you do—"

"And don't ever make the mistake of thinking that, just because I am what I am, you can come to me with your dime-store psychology and hope to get me turned up in knots over it."

"This was not my intention—"

"And if you _ever _pull a stunt like this again, Perle, then I won't hesitate to put a few rounds in your head on sight. You got that?"

Perle crossed her arms. In an infuriating display, she actually appeared amused by Fionnghal's vitriol.

"Duly noted," she smirked.

IV.

By the time Fionnghal tromped out to meet Asher at the command tent he was already coordinating with Brady, both of them hunched over a small console with an antenna pointed out across the black silhouette of trees in the dark, distant woods. The raccoon dog twins both stood some ways off, rifles slung over both their backs.

"Nice of you to join us, Fionnghal," Asher said, barely looking up from the console.

"Couldn't be helped," she said. She motioned to the raccoon dogs, snapping her fingers. Catchie and Katchy raced over to her side, and Fionnghal pointed at one of their rifles. "Can your scopes do thermal scans?"

"Yes, ma'am." Katchy nodded.

"Good." Fionnghal motioned out at the woods around them. "Spread out and do a search of the woods surrounding us."

"For what: dangerous animals?"

"More or less," Fionnghal nodded. "Just make it thorough, alright?"

While the twins ran off into the brush Asher looked up at the rat.

"What's that all about?"

"Long story," she said. "But what's _this _all about?" She motioned to the console.

"Short story. Thin on facts. We're tracking an object coming out of the north. Definitely a ship of some kind, and it's on course to pass right over our heads."

"Did it come out of the Dolamiram?"

"Can't rule it out," Brady said. "But if it did, it's not acting like a stealth attack ship. The thing's heat sigs are insane, and its course is erratic."

"What would cause a high engine heat signature?"

"Couple things," Asher again looked up from the console. "One: a pilot who doesn't know what he's doing might overtax his engines. But you'd have to be rather epically inept to fly as piss-poor as these readings show. Delta Tribe isn't known for letting untrained idiots behind the stick of their aircraft."

"So, the next likely reason?"

"Holes in the ship itself," Brady said. "And a compromised structure would also account for the wobbly course. If I had to guess, I think this ship is cut up to hell, for whatever reason, and whoever's piloting it is barely keeping it in the air."

"Hmm," Fionnghal grunted. "Well, that doesn't give us any answers, does it?"

Asher shook his head.

"Plenty more question, though."

They didn't need to wait long. Within ten minutes a small pinpoint of light flickered on the horizon, just above the treetops, and it grew brighter by the minute. It flew lower, too. The trio retreated behind a bank of particularly thick trees as a precaution, but the vessel wouldn't quite make it to their position.

It crashed in a small clearing about 500 yards away, instead.

"I'll go round up the K-dogs and we'll sweep the area," Brady said. "You two can hang back—"

"No we can't," Asher said, lazily drawing his sawn-off from under his vest and checking the chamber.

"It'd be rude not to go say 'hi' to whoever may have survived out there," Fionnghal smiled, retrieving the pistol from her belt.

Brady shook his head:

"I swear: why do you even _need _a chief of security if you won't listen to a word he says?"

"It's not all bad," Asher said as the trio started walking off toward the downed aircraft. "If Fionnghal and I bite it, then _you _probably get to be interim tribal leader. That's something, right?"

"I've got enough gray hairs as it is," Brady grumbled. "And you two are responsible for most of 'em..."

They approached the smoldering wreckage in tactical formation from three directions. Small flames lapped at the ground, casting shadows and smoke all about. Fionnghal saw enough pieces of the aircraft to make a deduction:

"It's a Delta Tribe transport ship," she confirmed.

"It _used _to be," Brady said. "Look at that fuselage: there are plasma burns all over the thing."

"Who the heck uses plasma weapons around here?" Asher asked.

"_We_ did, back when we had a fusion reactor," Fionnghal said.

Brady nodded:

"And the only other power with the means to make a plasma weapon capable of doing this kind of damage is—"

"Delta Tribe," Asher said.

Fionnghal squinted at the wreckage around them, shaking her head:

"What in the world is going on, here?"

Suddenly a small explosion sounded from the aircraft fuselage. One of the doors on the craft blew off, propelled by an emergency charge, and it nearly flattened Fionnghal, who had to duck and roll forward to skirt under the thing. It crashed down behind her, and she came out of her roll on one knee, her gun trained on the open doorway.

Smoke billowed from the hole in the craft. There was a noise— faint and whisper-like, almost a pained wheezing— and suddenly a bright red pinpoint of light shone through the smoke.

"Identify yourself," the rat growled.

The pinpoint of light bobbed and weaved unsteadily. Finally a shape emerged from the smog, pathetically crawling on all fours. The red light was attached to a metal eye-stalk, and the metal eye-stalk was attached to a chameleon.

A very familiar chameleon.

Fionnghal's jaw dropped.

"Gods of your father, Asher!"

Asher holstered his weapon and raced to Kakkari's side, while Fionnghal remained crouched down, providing cover. The cottontail rolled the chameleon over. His shirt was torn to tatters, exposing a mechanical horror show of plate armor and half-exposed gears. Asher winched, looking away from those mechanical innards.

Kakkari limply grabbed Asher's collar, pulling the rabbit's face down near his, and he croaked out a few slurred, barely intelligible words:

"H— hel— _help me_!"


End file.
